A Song of the White Wolf
by TheRoguePrince7
Summary: "Cast adrift through a wound in time and space, Geralt of Rivia, world renown monster slayer, finds himself thrown into war-torn Riverlands at the beginning of the War of the Five Kings. Alone in this strange new world, adventuring, fighting and loving along the way. Yet already, sinister forces gather around to make use of this unexpected turn of events..."


A Song of the White Wolf

I Kill Monsters

"Relax, Geralt, or you'll make me nervous too. How many times do I need to repeat that travelling through portals is not only a safe and stable mode of transportation, but indeed the only viable form of long-range travelling in the future. As the world becomes bigger, men will must needs travel faster over longer distances. Like it or not, the mass production of civilian portals is just around the corner, and your dogged stubbornness will earn you naught but scorn and discomfort.""If you insist, Tzara" said Geralt, though the manner of his retort betrayed anything but comfort - and he made sure Tzara would take notice. The bald sorcerer snorted in contempt and returned to swiftly listing through a bulky, ancient-looking, leather-bound manuscript laid in front of him, named rather simply "The basics of long-range teleportation". Geralt, sitting on Roach's back in full gear, with the viroledan blade he received from Dandelion as compensation for his stolen swords on his back, once again turned his gaze to the pair of bronze staffs in the stands before him. Richly decorated, covered in runes and glyphs he could not hope to decipher if he lived seven lifetimes, Geralt wondered for at least a hundredth time why was it so necessary to alter their daily routine of patrolling the Tukaj Hills. The standard means for teleportation sufficed perfectly for such ventures, as far as Geralt was concerned.

But Pinety and Tzara insisted that if they were to finally locate the energumen, the demon-possessed mass murderer who terrorised the unfortunate locals in the area surrounding Castle Rissberg, they had to use a (theoretically) more precise method of pinpoint accurate teleportation, which would (theoretically) spit Geralt out right in front of the murderous abomination, giving him a (theoretical) edge over his opponent, who proved as elusive to locate as an honest politician or a pious priest.

The method worked, Pinety and Tzara insisted…. theoretically, as this version of long-range precision portals has never before been attempted whilst targeting an ethereal being from another plane of existence. Geralt, who had little love for portals of any kind, proved persistent enough in his demands and sarcastic jabs that Pinety was eventually forced to confess that procedure for these types of search teleports has not only not been tested in the field, it was not even in the experimental phase on Rissberg itself. And Geralt knew that, if even the maniacal sorcerers of Castle Rissberg, infamous for producing half-baked, oft dangerous products and even more discarded "prototypes" of spells, potions, machinery and even monsters, were not yet sure whether one of their inventions would work, everyone sane of mind should consider testing something like that out on his own body as at the very least extremely perilous, at worst as a death sentence. A painful, gruelling, extremely prolonged death sentence.

Yet Geralt could see that Tzara and Pinety were growing desperate. It's been nine days since Geralt arrived on Rissberg, and they appeared to be no closer to catching the energumen who had already put three entire settlements to the torch. And Geralt was well aware just how small the chance of simply stumbling upon the murderer before his next spree was. Thus, very grudgingly and with the promise of a hefty bonus in case he, by some miracle, survived, Geralt agreed to play the guinea pig for his employers.

"How is this even supposed to work? Can you even locate the demon if he is not currently in our world? What if he has discarded his host and returned to the aether as we speak?" asked Geralt, carefully observing the empty space between the two fixed staffs, as if he was expecting that at any moment a swarm of aethereal bats were to burst from thin air and aim straight for him. Which, in all honesty, he was.

"Come now, Geralt, I am sure you know more of goetia than you let on. You must know that a demon, even if he no longer resides in our world, leaves behind him a trace of elemental energy, and that these specific types of trails are extremely rare. The odds of you popping up somewhere in Redania tracking the wrong energumen are next to null. And the chance that the energumen returns to his lair before discarding his host are more than likely. You will enter the portal, emerge inside the monster's lair…."

"And do what, Tzara? What do you and Pinety actually want me to do?" asked Geralt. Roach beneath him was as nervous as he was, shaking and stirring at the slightest movement. Geralt was not one to believe in ill omens, but he trusted the instincts of animals as much as his own witcher instincts, and both were currently telling him just how much of a naive imbecil he was for letting himself get talked into this.

Harlan Tzara did not answer for a long while. When he finally seemed to be preparing one of his typically venomous retorts, he flipped over another page of the grimoár, and, triumphantly, pointed to something written on the page Geralt could not hope to see. "Ha! Here it is! The proper incantation. Prepare yourself, hexer, and silence that rowdy horse of yours, it's constant neighing and spitting annoys me almost as much as your ungrateful criticism."

Geralt murmured a hushed reply, containing more than a few juicy dwarven insults, and moved to put a bag over Roache's head, but the mare began dancing and turning about, unwilling to once again be blinded by her rider, so much so that Geralt found he had trouble remaining seated on the horse. Meanwhile, Tzara successfully began murmuring his spells and incantations, moving his hands in slow, rhythmic motion, and as he recited from the book, the air before Geralt began to warp and twist and bend, and sparks of blue and red light began appearing out of nowhere.

"Get ready Geralt, I can only sustain the portal for a short while. Once I open it, you must cross straight through and be extremely careful not to stray from the path" called Tzara, whilst Geralt was still trying to get his mare under control.

"From what path? Isn't the transition supposed to be instantaneous?" he managed to ask, after grasping Roache's mane so as to not fall off from her in a very painful and awkward way.

"Usually it is, but this time there will be a small tear in reality through which you must pass straight as an arrow, if that is you don't want to be lost for all time. Can't say I would miss you too much though" replied Tzara. "Aaah, finally! Now, Geralt, go!" But Roach had a different course of action in mind. Even as the blue and red sparks of light tore open the fabric of space and time and spread to form a gaping wound in reality, resembling a gaping maw of a zeugl who had just swallowed a turquoise maelstrom, the mare was still twisting and turning, evermore violently than before. Geralt knew he had little time to act, and so, desperately, he let go of her mane and tried one last time to pull the bag over his horse's head. He almost had it.

Pinety burst into the wide chamber, red faced and fuming, trying to catch his breath. „Harlan! Don't! There's been an…."

But even before he could finish, a flame, blue as cobalt and hot as hell, burst from the opened portal. For Roach, that was the straw that broke the camel's back. The mare twisted around and bucked, quickly and violently. Violently enough that Geralt flew from his saddle, through the air and, before he had a chance to take a breath, headfirst into the swirling wound in time.

It was like drowning, but worse. Far, far worse. Geralt felt as if a swarm of bees had made their beehive in his mouth, his throat, his lungs, his gut. Oh, how terrible the pain in his gut was. He could not breathe, he could not move, and his ears were filled with a queer, white noise, like the sound of a million cats scratching their claws at once. He wanted to stand, but his legs refused to obey him. He wanted to get a hold of something, anything, but his hands felt as though a lightning bolt had struck them, shaking and itching all over. He wanted to scream, but his voice had left him, and he found he was unable to do anything but watch, open-eyed and terrified, what arose from the swirling tide of magical energy around him.

He saw before him a scurvy, flea-ridden dog, clutching in jaws full of bile a helpless, feeble babe; a decrepit old hag with the wings of a bat, a cup of blood in her hand and tree branch in the other, who cast the most terrifying shadow; a bleeding leopard with a burning bush tied to its tail; a flaming sword, melting from the heat of the fire that engulfed it; a gilded rose growing from a crimson brick, weeping tears of blood; a flame, ever twisting and flailing, dancing before his eyes, clasped in the hands of a statue of a fair maid, carved of purest marble, but with streams of blood running down her feet; and a shrouded figure born aloft on wings of shadow, darkness slithering about its legs, with a single burning eye.

All this, he saw and did not see, for his mind took in these scenes and immediately forgot them, as Geralt was pulled ever deeper into the swirling maelstrom of sound and colour and chaos. His eyes felt like to burst, his teeth felt as if he had just supped on sand, and his tongue seemed adamant to grow large and thick enough to block his throat and deplete his lungs of air, stealing from him breath and causing his mind to begin slowly slipping away….

And then it was over, and Geralt was spat out, rudely and violently, onto wet sand and sharp, little rocks on the riverside. For a precious, seemingly endless moment, Geralt could not move, his muscles stiff and his body rigid, so much so that even his lungs refused to obey the ever more incessant brain. Then, with a gasp, he took a deep, slow breath, and then another, until he could breathe freely again. He immediately went through a nigh-on crippling coughing fit, followed by an intense pain in his left lung, and the pain in his skull was as though and icy sword had been stuck within his skull. Apart from the pain, however, he seemed to be unharmed. His mouth was full of thick, wet sand, and as he struggled to breathe, some of it was drawn along with oxygen down his throat, spurring another furious coughing fit. Spitting and salivating, he managed to roll himself over from his back to his arms and knees, and after a sudden, violent camber from within his gut, he began to vomit, long and loud, until only saliva remained in his mouth.

He tried to stand, but found his legs refused to obey him yet again, so instead, he cumbersomely sat down (or rather just dropped down on his arse) with a moan of relief, and began to scout his surroundings. It was dark all around him, but the sky was cloudless and the moon and stars provided just enough light for Geralt's enhanced eyesight to make sense of the space around him. He was sitting on the bank of a shallow river, a crossing of some sort - a ford. The water was flowing around his feet and knees, which Geralt found to be strangely pleasant, as the water cooled his burning body to a more comfortable temperature. Geralt's breathing slowed, he stopped coughing and wiped the tears and dirt from his eyes. Only then did he take note of the smell. Wracked with pain, he did not initially notice it, but now it's presence was inescapable - a putrid stink that found its way into Geralt's nose and mouth, filling his throat and lungs and instinctively prompting him to gag. He knew what that smell meant. Geralt looked around and saw the corpses.

There were at least a hundred bodies littered around the ford, men and horses laid in grisly piles wherever they were felled. Some still had arrows sticking from their necks or guts, but most were seemingly felled by cold steel - Geralt saw cuts made by swords and axes, and deep puncture wounds most often caused by spears and halberds. Most corpses were clad in rough spun but colourful gambesons, some wore mail shirts and a few still had pieces of heavy plate left on them, though most of the finer equipment the dead had formerly possessed had apparently already been looted by the victors. Horse carcasses lay strewn amongst the men, their bellies ripped open and their necks riddles with arrows and spear tips. Geralt spied flocks of ravens and crows feasting on the dead all around him, and a few foxes were nibbling at the spilled guts of a dead warhorse near Geralt's resting place. The entire scene, as strange and grisly as that may seem, reminded Geralt of nothing more than a bloody flowerbed.

Some corpses wore coloured waffenrocks, most of which were torn, burned or dirty beyond recognition, but a few still bore distinct heraldry of their owners. Geralt never much cared for the nobility of the northern realms, but even he knew the family crests of the more powerful noble houses, certainly those that could afford to arm their soldiers as well as the corpses he saw before him were formerly armed. But he saw that he did not recognize a single sigil from the few he still could recognize on the ground. He spied six white stars arranged in a triangle on a purple field, a grey wolf on a field of snow white, a burning tree on a field of smoke, a green spiral on a golden background, three purple balls on yellow, an indigo lightning bolt on a black field riddled with stars, but most common on the battlefield were yellow waffenrocks depicting three black leaping dogs. Wherever Geralt might have been spat out by the experimental portal, it was not anyplace he recognized from personal experience or hearsay.

His chest was still burning, and when Geralt tried to massage it, he winced in pain - at least two of his ribs were broken. His legs were beginning to obey him, at last, but he now faced another problem - the initial jolt of adrenaline that had first allowed him to crawl on all fours and sit down was passing, and he found he had barely enough strength to so much as move his hands.

He went over his equipment. The viroledan blade was still hanging from his back, filthy from the mud and sand but otherwise undamaged. The leather jerkin and white shirt he wore were similarly stained, but Geralt could not find any overt tears or anything that might impede on the usefulness of his gear. He reached to his throat, and found his medallion still hanging from his neck, as always. The bag he wore on the belt around his chest was still there, and it seemed as though most of the potions he wore in the thick, glass vials in most of his pockets had survived unharmed. That's good, thought Geralt, for he would have need of them now, mayhaps more than ever before. Likewise undamaged and in place were his dagger, his hunting knife and metal knuckles on his gloves.

"Everything undamaged" said the witcher "except, that is, for me".

He startled fumbling around in his bag for a short while, until, at least, he found a small vial he knew contained the swallow elixir, the potion all witchers used as first aid in almost any situation. Geralt knew he would need to find a place to rest once he took the potion if he wanted it to work proper, yet he had no idea where he could find such a place. He hadn't the faintest whether there was a settlement or any kind of shelter at all nearby, and even if there was, the odds of local residents welcoming a strange, wounded, heavily armed man in the middle of the night during wartime, was exceptionally slim to say the absolute least. Yet if he swallowed the potion in this state, he would surely pass out, and would become easy prey for even the ravens feasting on the dead around him, not even mentioning the other predators, both beasts and men, who could be prowling the area.

He stood up. Immediately, his head began to spin, his feet were shaken as if he had been dancing through the whole night, and his stomach and spine protested against this course of action vehemently. Still he managed to stand up straight and remain on his feet. He took a step forward. His whole world vanished in a dark blurr, and he was back in the water, spitting and cursing, but still holding on to the vial of swallow in his hand.

Slowly, gradually, he repeated the process. Once again, his feet sought to betray him, but he managed to force himself to do a shaky, small step forward. And then another. Each step felt as though he was walking on shards of glass, but every success only strengthened Geralt's resolve, and eventually, after what seemed like an eternity of pain and weakness, he managed to reach the thick bushes growing around the riverbank. When he finally reached his first chosen destination, however, his head began to spin, violently and abruptly, and Geralt was forced to concede that he would go no further before he had the time to rest. Grunting, he sat down once again, clumsily, and, still shaking, opened the small vial with his teeth, gulping the potion contained within down within seconds.

Any self-control he might have gained over the last half-hour vanished in that instant, and Geralt fell back onto the soft, wet grass, as he began to lose conscience, looking up into the sky. What he saw there terrified him.

He saw the moon, a bright shining silver orb, and a cloudless, starry sky. He saw constellations in those stars, bright and shining and beautiful. And alien. He did not recognise those stars. He did not recognise a single constellation. He instantly knew what that meant. And as he realised the implications of what he had just understood, something deep inside him, something he barely knew existed within him, began to slowly break.

"No" he whispered, and lost all sense of the world.

He dreamed of her again. That was nothing new to him, but this time the dream was different. She seemed further away than ever before, and where in other dreams they held each other in love's embrace, this time she had her back turned to him, looking into the distant unknown, her long raven hair running down her shoulders like midnight stream. He wished to walk towards her, to turn her around and kiss her, hard and long, but somehow he found he didn't have the strength to approach her. And so, for the longest time, both of them remained standing still, with an empty void all around them.

To Geralt, it seemed as if a century had passed, before, at last, she turned around. A mischievous, playful smile crossed her full red lips, and she cocked her head in a daring gesture, in the manner which only she knew and perfected. Few sights in the world gave Geralt as much joy as that smile.

_Come home._

Home? But he had no home. He was a wanderer, a piece of dirty driftwood, ever travelling from one place he didn't know to the next, always on the move, never ceasing, never stopping, never letting himself be tied down. Well, not never. Once he did. Once. And he regretted it ever since.

_Come home. _

Her face changed, as did her entire body. No longer were only her hair the colour of raven's wings - indeed, her entire body now was covered in darkness, no, not covered, made from darkness, with tentacles of shadow snapping at her feet, and her sapphire eyes disappearing into a single, crimson ball of blood and death and flame.

_Come home._

Born aloft on wings of despair and blackness, the dark figure turned fully towards Geralt now, yet he failed to recognize or discern any of its notable characteristics, save for the single blood-red orb. As the being of smoke and darkness began to approach him, Geralt winced in pain, feeling its fiery gaze blazing through him like an inferno, but he could not move, could not run, could not so much as speak.

_COME HOME!_

"Da', you sure we shouldn't take some o' their stuff? Pate might buy it from us for a decent sum."

"Robbing the dead Ben, are we? Have you no shame boy? The Seven teach us to respect the dead, for one day you'll most likely be treated the same you treated the poor sods layin' 'ere, if the Father's just. Remember son, greed's for magpies and hamsters, not honest god-fearin' men. Come Ben, 'ere, help me turn this one over, I think I saw him twitching."

"Can't we at least strip the Mountain's men? They were nothing but rapists and cutthroats anyways, the Father 'll know we had more need o' their silver."

"And you'd feed your family with gold gathered through robbing and thieving? There'd be blood and curse on anything you'd buy for such coin Ben, even if you meant it well. No, best we leave such scavenging for the crows and dogs and bandits. We came here for the living"

"If we take in one of them Mountain's bastards, he'll most like reward our help with a knife in the jollies, da'."

"The Mother tells us to love our brother, be he our friend or foe in time o' need. We needn't take the stranger home with us, Ben, we just need to deliver him to the healer, so that he doesn't die here, amidst the dead on unholy ground."

"You think there's gonna be a war, da'? Will you go to war for the king like the last time?"

"'Tis' possible, likely even, now that the king's men had been butchered by that mad dog Tywin Lannister's let off its leash. King Robert, Ben, is foul o' temper and quick to anger, he'll not take such an act lightly."

"Let's go to war, then! I wanna go slay some of them westermen, like Pate the Lion slayer did, and we'd earn enough coin to sell the mill and move to the city!"

"And who'll take care of your mum and sisters, Ben? Hmmm? Know you what happens to wenches and youngsters in time o' war, if there isn't a man in the house to protect 'em? No, if there's to be a war, we must needs make ready and consider removing ourselves from the marching paths of armies."

"Come on, da'! You fought bravely for prince Rhaegar, all the men in the village talk about it! I wanna' make a name for meself too! Killing Lannisters and…."

"Quit your yapping about things you don't understand, Ben! One problem at a time. We'll talk more about war once we're back home - alone or with company. We're almost done 'ere. Say, what have you found down there? "

"Da'! Da', come 'ere! I think this one's still breathing!"

"I'm coming, hold your horses Ben, I've more years then you… Hmmm, and who might he be? He don't look like the others we've been finding thus far. A sword on his back, pale white hair…. I've never seen a warrior of his like in me life, oh no, and I've seen aplenty a strange character on the march to the Trident, even silver-haired sellswords from Lys and Volantis…. Check him, boy."

"He's still breathing da', definitely. He's all dirty and filthy, and stinks like a corpse, but I don't see any wounds or cuts on him. Seems like he just passed out. Oh, wait, look at his face, da'! Them veins are like to burst!"

"Some poison most like. Quick Ben, we gotta move him, elsewise he's done for…. hold his head, he's twitching... look at those eyes o' his…. BEN, STAND BACK!"

"What, da'?"

"He blinked, the bastard - an eye twitch most like, but I've never seen eyes like his. Orange and blood-streaked and slit as a viper's or cat's…. no human created by the gods has eyes like his. Leave him be, boy, and let's get outta here, afore he curses us too."

"But da', we can't leave him all poisoned-like?!"

"Ben, I won't argue about this! Tis' one thing to risk your life for the life of a stranger, tis' quite another to endanger your family for him! Do you know what happened to him?! He has no wounds, which means either he is damn good with that fancy sword o' his, or he did not fight and came 'ere later, gods only know with what intent."

"But da', the crows will have him if we leave him here like that! You said yourself we're to help a man in need, even if he is a bastard!"

"Ben, I'll have none of this. That's no man right there, that's some vile fiend spawned from the seventh hell, with the eyes of a demon! I'll not put your mother and sisters at risk for such a creature!"

"It might just be a disease he'd been born with, da'! Willem told me, he'd seen all kinds of freakish mugs in Essos - men with long heads, men with scaly green skin, men with noses like boars…."

"Willem talks too much for me liking."

"Could be the poor sod's from Essos da', and was knocked out fighting for the king. You heard what folk said, that lord Beric had that strange fire-wizard from Myr with him when he passed by! This man could have come with him! And besides, da', you just spent a good half-an-hour explaining to me why we should take in even one of them Mountain's men, to help the helpless, and now you'll leave a man to die whose crimes you don't even know?"

"..."

"Da', come on!"

"... Your tongue's too sharp for your own good, sprout."

"I learned from the best."

"Ha! You ought to be the king's fool with a tongue like that, boy! Very well. Help me get this man on the cart, but careful not to touch his mouth. You don't know what kinda poison may drip from his lips…."

Geralt didn't really know what was happening to him for most of the day. He vaguely felt that he was being moved from one place to another, as the skies above him changed from time to time, but he barely took notice of these changes. He was still half asleep, dreaming very vivid dreams.

He saw Villentretenmerth sprawled before him in his true form, smoke coming out of his enormous nostrils and flames dancing in his jaws. Tea and Vea were with him too, dancing and twisting and spinning. Geralt realised he had never seen the Zerrikanian women dance before, and now understood just how much he had missed out on. The swarthy girls were twisting and turning like leaves in autumn gale, light as feathers and beautiful as flowers. Occasionally they would dance in unison, singing and laughing and holding hands, occasionally they would stand against each other, adopting poses more fit for a duel than a dance, and though he did not understand their strange language, Geralt was not dense enough not to recognise a challenge when he heard one, as the two girls circled each other singing in their queer foreign tongue and trying to outmanoeuvre each other. And then, as suddenly as they were foes, they became friends again, taking each other's hand and continuing the dance in harmony. Geralt was left speechless at the beauty of the performance. Not that he could speak even if he wished to do so.

Villentretenmerth was, evidently, just as enamoured with the display. The dragon's tail was sweeping left to right in a state of agitation that reminded Geralt of nothing as much as an aroused dog, and the witcher grew sure that once the performance was finished, the dragon would bed whichever girl he deemed the better dancer. The longer Geralt watched, the fiercer the competition became, and the swifter the two warrior-women danced and banked and twirled.

Then, suddenly, the great golden beast cocked his head in what seemed to be surprise, then confusion, and the huge fanged maw of the dragon turned around and stared right at the paralysed witcher. Tea and Vea, annoyed that Villentretenmerth would show disinterest in their dance, also turned to stare in Geralt's general direction, though neither was looking right at him and both seemed to not even notice him.

"Geralt?" he suddenly heard the dragon's voice inside his head, confused and questioning.

And then the scene changed.

The dragon and Tea disappeared. Vea's face changed. No longer was she possessed of the olive complexion characteristic of the Zerrikanian peoples, but of a snow-white pallor of freshly milled flour, and her hair changed from dark brown to dirty blonde, short, cropped and unkempt. Her exotic cloak made of leopard fur and colourful feathers was warped into a ragged dress with an unevenly cut chequered skirt, and a long slender blade appeared in her hand.

"I pity you, witcher" said Renfri, with a sarcastic smirk that slowly spread across her face. "You claim there is no lesser evil, yet you sate your sword with blood to protect men from what you see as evil, never certain you are justified in doing what you do, never sure whether you are facing True Evil. True Evil is something you can barely imagine, even if you think you have already seen it all." Blood began to trickle down her thigh, staining her dress and boots and skin, from the deep cut in her leg, a cut Geralt was all too familiar with.

"This world holds more than a few True Evils, of which you are as ignorant as a new-born babe, and soon those evils will come knocking at your door yet again. I pity you". Geralt knew she was not here, no, she was not here, she was dead, dead and buried in peace, in peace she never knew in life, but her words cut deep, just as they had during their final confrontation, deeper than her swords and knives and kisses. And then her face changed yet again.

Her skin remained the same, as white and pure as new snow, but her hair grew black as midnight and her cold blue eyes became violet and deep, deep as the sea, and just as in the sea, Geralt began drowning in them yet again. Clad in black and white, she approached him, and only now did he realise he was lying down, stripped down to his breeches, and with his hands and legs tied together. And with that realisation returned the pain, the terrible, all-consuming nausea that threatened to split his head in two.

She walked all the way to him, bent down towards him, and kissed him full on the lips. He knew it was a dream, he was keenly aware of it, but even as the pain inside his cranium was becoming unbearable, he knew he wanted the illusion to last longer.

Their lips parted, and he heard her say "Come home". Then she kissed him yet again, but this time not on the lips, but on the forehead, and suddenly the feeling became more real, and just for a moment Geralt was not sure he was dreaming.

"Come home."

He opened his eyes, but it was not her lips cooling his forehead, but a wet rag with which someone was cleaning his face, gently scrubbing it across his brow and cheeks.

"Ha!" he heard someone call out. "Ma'! Ma', come 'ere! He's awake!"

The girl tending to him couldn't have been older than thirteen, with curly auburn hair and big blue eyes. She was unusually tall as well, but that somehow made her seem older and more graceful than such a child had any right to be. She wore a simple woollen green dress, and Geralt noticed she was barefoot as she sat beside him on the edge of a small wooden pallet.

As the pain in his head slowly receded, Geralt began to take in his surroundings. He was in a barn or shed of some sort, large and roomy, with gardening tools all around him - shovels, rakes, pitchforks, all neatly stacked in the corner of the room. There was a single exit from the shed, a heavy wooden door possessed of an equally heavy wooden latch. The door was left partially opened, and Geralt could see sunshine passing through the opening, so he knew it was at least late morning. If, that is, time flows here like it flows in my home.

Home. It was strange to think of any place in the Northern realms as his home, save mayhaps Kaer Morhen, but Geralt found that despite himself, he started to feel homesick and lonely the moment he realised where he was.

Apart from the gardening tools and a few sacks of flour there was little else in the shed, but eventually a metallic glare caught the corner of Geralt's eye. He turned his head and realised that his equipment was laid down neatly on the floor in the opposite corner of the building. As far as he could tell, everything was accounted for - his sword still in its sheath, his bag still on its holster, his shirt and vest and boots clean and neatly folded into small piles beside each other. It was only then that Geralt realised he only had his pants on.

For the first time, he looked at himself and fully realised he was tied down. His hands and legs were bound together with a thick piece of rope, tight enough that he could not move but not so much so that it would cause him pain. He tried to move his hands and was happy to see they once again obeyed him perfectly. The pain in his chest was also almost gone, though unfortunately, he had no way of knowing how well the ribs had healed, and he was hesitant to ask the girl sitting on his bedside to touch his breast to find out.

He now took a closer look at her as well. The girl looked perfectly ordinary, apart from her unusual height, and she seemed as interested in Geralt as he was interested in her, if not more. He caught her gazing at his many battle scars, particularly the circular scar near his chest bone - a nasty stab he had received from a gigascorpion in Mahakam. The girl quickly averted her sight and looked him in the eyes instead. She couldn't, however, entirely hide the fear she evidently felt upon looking into his eyes. Geralt knew that primal fear well. For the first half of his life, he would see it every day he looked into a mirror. The fear of the unnatural. The fear of the unknown. The fear of the inhuman.

Geralt decided to speak up. It would do them no good ogling each other, he reasoned, _and by some miracle the girl speaks the same language I do_.

"What's your name?" he asked her.

Big mistake. The girl, who so far kept a calm demeanour about herself, now opened her eyes in wide disbelief, as if she was sure that her ears deceived her. Geralt had no wish to frighten the poor thing, but he needed answers, and fast. And so he repeated his question.

"Who are you?" he asked slowly, as if speaking to a toddler.

"M-mm-melissa" the girl repeated, stuttering and stunned, and began to rise to her feet, evidently trying to increase the distance between the two of them.

"I am pleased to meet you, Melissa" the witcher replied. "Pray tell, where am I?"

The girl seemed for a minute not to comprehend the question Geralt was asking. Then, instead of replying, she repeated the call with which she had woken Geralt from his slumber.

"Ma'! Da'! Come here, he's awake!"

When no answer came, she turned back to Geralt, her back facing the feeble wooden wall of the shed, told him "Stay here, I'll be right back", and disappeared out the door and into the sunlight.

"Your wish is my command" said Geralt, rubbing his tied-up hands against each other.

After a few minutes, the rest of Melissa's family came into the shed. The first to enter was a burly man with a long moustache, weathered and whipped by age and hard life if his worn face and the long, thick scar he bore on it were to be believed. Dressed in simple white clothes, he had thick, hairy arms, short black hair that were now slowly turning grey, and a well-cultivated moustache that hid most of his mouth. Geralt instantly knew that this was the man who had tied him down.

Behind the man entered a boy of twelve at most, whose short black hair were a mirror of his father's in a younger age, but unlike his father, the boy was slender and slim, akin more to a fox than a bear that his sire was. He had, like his sister, large and curious eyes, but his were the colour of emeralds, as green as cintran sea. And despite being approximately a third the size of his father, he tried to carry himself with the same resolute step, even if it did not have quite the same effect as he may have desired.

After him came the person who helped Geralt understand why both siblings were so tall. The mother, possessed of long, curly auburn hair and the exact same large blue eyes, was unusually tall for a woman as well, though Geralt noticed that Melissa was already hot on her heels in terms of height. Behind her skirt, Geralt noticed two more girls, a lovely pair of twins, though these couldn't have been older than six or seven years, and both took after their father, being short and squat and black of hair and green of eye.

Melissa entered last, sneaking into the room so quietly it seemed she wished to melt into the walls of the shed, as if afraid that the witcher might be, for whatever reason, upset about her actions, but in truth Geralt was oddly relieved. Sure, he was bound and stripped of his possessions, but all those were within reach, and he was about to get some answers. He had suffered worse mornings in his life.

"Look, Serra, look, I told you he had cat eyes!" cried one of the twins as they entered the small wooden building.

"Shush, Sarra, you'll spook him! Are those real, ser, or are they some kind of magic trick?" asked the other.

"No need for 'em to be a magic trick. Ol' Olly from Stoney Sept put a golden dragon inside his eye socket when an arrow poked his eye out!" Sarra wouldn't let Geralt answer.

"Who's asking you?" asked Serra "You're stupid. If this one poked out both his eyes, how would he see? Ha? Shush dummy, let the clever twin do the talkin'."

"My arse you're clever!" shouted Sarra and balled her tiny fists.

"Sarra!" cried her mother, outraged.

"Sorry ma', but Serra started it!"

"That's no excuse to use such profanity!" insisted her mother, while the rest of the family completely lost interest in Geralt for a moment, awkwardly looking at each other as the conversation unfolded.

"But da' uses them words all the time!"

"Then I'll have a word with your da' too after this" her mother said, throwing a look of stern disapproval at the father, underneath which he seemed to shrivel down just little. "Now come with me, the both of you" she ended the debate and reached to take both their hands.

"But I didn't do nothin'!" protested Serra, but one look from her mother made all her other protests die away like wheat in a fire. Resigning, she took her mother's hand and walked out of the shed.

When the twins left, the remaining three members of the family turned to a mildly amused, but still stern face of their "guest". The father grabbed a bucket from the pile of instruments, turned it around and sat down at the foot of the pallet. His son and eldest daughter stood each by his side, and all three were stripping Geralt down to the bone with their eyes, looking nervously at the rope that bound his hands, as if they were expecting it to start untying itself all of a sudden.

Geralt resolved to take the initiative and speak up once again, but before he could, the man sitting on the bucket spoke first, in a gruff, low barytone.

"We haven't been properly introduced. My name's Edwyn. This is me daughter, Melissa, and me lad, Benjicot. I apologise for the inconvenience" he said, nodding his chin towards Geralt's tied hands, "but in times like these, folk who are too trusting o' strangers most oft find themselves with a knife in their backs, understand. We found you amidst the corpses at the Mummer's Ford and tried to take you to a local healer, but the moment he laid eyes on you he proclaimed he'd not touch you even if I sold him the mill then and there. So, we brought you here and kept you warm and prayed for you - twas as much as we could do. Luckily, it seems to me you're quite chipper now. Chipper enough to answer some questions maybe?"

"Interesting, just so happens I've quite a few questions of my own" replied Geralt, cautiously. Edwyn had a weary look about him, and Geralt knew he had to be careful just how much he told him. The villagers had evidently discovered his inhuman qualities, and based on the reaction of the healer, they were none too fond of non-humans in these parts. He would have to play it safe and slow if he wanted to avoid the stake.

"Do you now? Very well, warrior. Let's speak, one warrior to another. I give you a question, and you answer, truthfully. Then you give me a question, and I will do my best to answer you too, honest-like. So, do we have a deal?"

"Seems like I don't have much of a choice" opened the witcher with a lie. The rope with which he was bound was nowhere near strong enough to hold him, now that he had regained control of his body. He could just as easily use Axii on his unfortunate captors and force them to release him, should things prove difficult. But he sensed no immediate danger from these people, and as far as he knew, they might truly have helped him out of selfless intentions. He disliked rewarding good deeds with egotism. And besides, he had questions. A lot of questions.

"You can always refuse to answer - but expect that it'll make me ask more questions, and that'll make you stay with us longer" said Edwyn. All three of his hosts watched him intently, apparently searching for any signs of discomfort or unease, but Geralt was too experienced in this game to allow himself to be caught off guard, even tied down and seemingly at their mercy.

"First question - who did you fight for at the Mummer's Ford?" began Edwyn.

"No one - I arrived on the spot sometime after the battle was over, and passed out" replied Geralt, truthfully. He could see Edwyn was searching for a sign of a lie on his face, but Geralt would not let him see it even if he did decide to lie.

"My turn" said Geralt. "What year is it?"

That took Edwyn and his children by surprise, Geralt could see. They were most likely expecting a different question, but eventually Edwyn replied "By me count it's the year 298 AC, but I might be a year or two off. That's what the septon says, anyway" he said, shrugging.

Septon. Never in his life had Geralt heard a similar term, and though he vaguely suspected its meaning, its origin remained to him as foreign as the lyrics of Tea's song, if not more so.

"What does AC mean?" continued Geralt.

Edwyn perhaps would have protested the fact that Geralt asked two questions in a row, but he seemed far too puzzled by the question itself to notice.

"What do you mean what's it mean? After Conquest, 'course. Every sprout in even the most backwater corner of Westeros knows that, and you don't look much like a dimwit to me."

"Well, that's a relief to hear" remarked Geralt, but inside he could feel his guts were slowly turning to lead. What Conquest? There were hundreds of thousands of conquests in the history of the Northern realms, most of them petty and short-lived, but none of them gained enough historical significance to mark the beginning of an era. The Northerners marked the beginning of their calendar with the landing of the Exiles, some twelve centuries ago. His suspicions began turning into certainty now.

"Now tell me" continued Edwyn "why did you pass out amidst them corpses?"

"I was hurt, so I drank a…." Geralt swiftly found the least provocative word "medicine, a special kind of herbal tincture that helped me regain my strength, but, combined with my injuries, forced me to lie down and sleep for a while" he replied, again, truthfully.

"Awhile is damn right. You slept for one and a half day, and I tell you, you're a tough man to wake up. But the medicine, is that one of them vials you have in your bag? We took none of it, if that's what you're worried about, though Sarra wanted to drink one of 'em when we found 'em. All your belongings are here and undamaged, for we're honest folk" remarked Edwyn.

"Yes, that was a wise decision. The contents of my vials are not fit for children to consume". _Nor are they for any normal man, truth be told _he thought to himself. "My question - where are we?"

"Half a day's ride from Mummer's Ford, near the village High Falls."

"And where is that?"

"What do you mean, where is that? You came here same as everybody else, didn't you? By roads or boats or both?" replied Edwyn, growing wary once again.

"Not exactly."

"How then?"

"Answer me first" insisted Geralt, and the two men stared at each other for a moment in a silent battle of wills. Geralt could see the discomfort Edwyn experienced looking into his mutated eyes as clear as day, and did not bother averting his sight before Edwyn did. Finally, the man gave in, and continued with his answer.

"High Falls and its surroundings belong to lords Piper of Pinkmaiden, who themselves are vassals to lord Tully of Riverrun, Lord Paramount of the Trident and the head of the great house of the Riverlands. Does such an answer satisfy you?"

"It will have to do for now" replied Geralt, though he was anything but satisfied with the new information, but he did not wish to press his luck.

"So - how did you get here?" pressed Edwyn.

"My mare got spooked, bucked me off from the saddle and I fell, quite unfortunately, into the stream."

Geralt had no illusions that this would convince his host, but that was all he was willing to give up. Indeed, it didn't.

"You're lying" said Edwyn, suspicion dripping from his words like venom.

"You tell me that, Edwyn - am I?" asked Geralt, gently. Edwyn paused momentarily, but immediately regained the initiative.

"No…. but you ain't telling us everything. You said you didn't come by boat or road, and yet your mare bucked you from your seat. What are we to make o' that?" "Whatever you desire. I speak with you honestly, as we agreed. We never spoke of telling each other things we don't know. I tell you truthfully - my mare threw me from the saddle, and I found myself amidst the dead at Mummer's Ford. That is it and that is all."

Edwyn was evidently not content with such an answer. "Guess I'll not pry anything else from you then?"

"Guess not."

"We could always try to beat the truth out of you."

"But you won't" said Geralt with icy confidence. "A man who risks visiting a battlefield just to collect the wounded does not stoop down to torture - especially not with those he has just saved."

A shadow of a smile crossed Edwyn's lips at that. "I see you've experience aplenty when it comes to interrogation."

"This is an interrogation? Why, I figured we were just having a friendly conversation" Geralt remarked jovially.

"We are. For now. And I'd like to keep it like that" continued Edwyn. "Your question."

"The battlefield I ended up on. Is your land at war?"

That seemed to genuinely upset his hosts. Edwyn quickly threw a sideways glance at his children, Melissa stiff and straight as a column, the son lost in thought but balling his fists for all to see.

"Not yet" said Edwyn "but it could still come. In these parts, wars oft begin faster than you can blink, and the Mountain's men have been raiding the surrounding lands savagely for the past weeks, so some form o' revenge was bound to come at some point. More will likely follow" Geralt saw fear written plain as day across his face at that thought.

"Now you. We've been talking here for quite a while now, but I still don't know what to call you. What's your name, good ser?"

"I am no ser, whatever that may mean. My name is Geralt. Folk call me Geralt of Rivia" said Geralt, and conveniently left out some of his other, less neutral sounding nicknames.

"Rivia…. I ain't never heard o' such a land in me life. Is it somewhere in Essos?"

"No, it is in the North" said Geralt.

"So, you're a Northman?" asked Edwyn, visibly surprised.

"In a manner of speaking, yes, I am."

"I figured you wouldn't be from 'round these parts, but I've never heard of no Rivia in the North. Tell me, who rules there?"

"Lady Meve currently holds both Rivia and Lyria, to the best of my knowledge" replied Geralt, who thought it wise to withhold that in truth, Lady Meve had been Queen Meve for quite a while now, since he had no notion whether there were any kings or queens in the North of this world. That he was in another world he now had no doubts - this land was not exotic enough to be Ofier; or Zerrikania, but everything subtler about it was too foreign and different to be anywhere in the Continent. The only question he now had was how to get back, and he somewhat doubted that his current hosts would be able to answer him.

"Well, the North is vast, and few southerners ever truly know it like the Northmen do" shrugged Edwyn, "though even in the North, the year is common knowledge… but fair enough, I ain't smart enough to doubt you in this. Your turn."

"How far from here is the nearest centre of knowledge?" asked Geralt, though what he truly meant to ask was h_ow far is the nearest place which might possess the magic powerful enough to get me back home?_ He had little illusions about his current situation. Tzara and Pinety would surely be looking for him, if for nothing else than simply to make him finish the job, but Geralt fell through a wound in the space-time continuum straight into the reality aether, and he could have been spat out quite literally anywhere at any time. That is a tad too many possibilities for even two skilled mages to chew through quickly, and Geralt could never be certain that they will find the correct spell or even get hold of a portal powerful enough to take him back home. For now, he would have to improvise, and that meant getting ahold of any readily available source of magic.

Yet something about Edwyn and his family convinced Geralt that it would be best not to use the word magic around them too much, so knowledge (and all that phrase encompasses) should be enough for now.

"You've strange questions Geralt, quite strange. One might think you'd never set foot in Westeros afore this day" replied Edwyn, slowly weighing his words.

"One should not be blamed for thinking that to himself" replied Geralt, "but I asked you a question, Edwyn, and I would like it answered."

"The nearest town is Stoney Sept to the south, 'bout five day's ride by horse" frowned Edwyn "but I doubt you'd find much knowledge there. All the maesters in Westeros come from one place, and one place only - the Citadel o' Oldtown, the greatest place of learning in all the Seven Kingdoms. If there is a question no one else can answer for you, the Citadel is your best option. But Oldtown's far away, at least a month's ride south-west. Your closest and best option is Maidenpool, the largest town in the Riverlands. True, 'tis not as huge as Duskendale or King's Landing, but it's still a big hub o' trade and commerce, and I'm sure you'd find aplenty of learned folk about, if you know where to look."

"What's up with your eyes?" the boy asked, finally letting slip the question Geralt saw he was burning to ask since the moment he entered.

"Shush Benjicot! Not yet!" Edwyn rounded on his son, but the damage was done. Geralt chuckled, his laugh a deep, low rumble, and turned both his serpent eyes toward the youngster.

"My eyes…. Hmmm, that's a good question. What _did_ really happen to them? I often ask that myself. I am afraid I can't give you a satisfying answer. Only thing I know is that when i was still a boy, about the same age as you, perhaps a little younger, someone did something very painful and unpleasant to them, but the process allowed me to forevermore see clearer in the dark than anyone else I know."

Ben, seemingly understanding that what he had asked had been somehow improper, averted the eyes with which he had been up to this point carefully scanning Geralt from head to toe, and stared into the ground.

"Benjicot meant no disrespect" said Edwyn, turning back to the witcher "but he is right, you do look most unusual, ser Geralt. I have seen during my life pirates from Lys with hair o' silver and gold and sellswords from Tyrosh who would paint their hair and beards with all manner o' strange colours, I have seen men o' Ibben who looked more seal than man and sailors from the Summer Isles with skin as dark as charcoal, but never have I seen a man possessed o' your features. Your hair seems bleached, not dyed, your skin's pale as the flesh o' a corpse and your eyes… who are you, ser Geralt, truly?"

"Pest exterminator" replied Geralt.

Edwyn's frown deepened, if that was even possible at this point. Melissa and Ben unintentionally spat out, laughing and giggling, but one look from their father returned them to stony silence.

"So, you carry a sword on your back and knives in your clothing for hunting rats?" asked Edwyn, a mocking tone self-evident in his voice.

"Occasionally I hunt wild felines too" replied Geralt. "Safe to say, where I come from, they are known to grow to a frankly ridiculous size."

Benjicot could not help but giggle under his breath for a few moments. His sister had better composure, but despite their reluctance the siblings evidently found Geralt's response quite amusing. Not so much Edwyn.

"You're a secretive man, Geralt of Rivia. I remember meeting a few men like you in my time. Most of them ended badly, they did."

"I sincerely hope that was not a threat, Edwyn. Anyway, I answered truthfully. I have one final question and then I'll be on my way, if you'll allow me. Why did you take me in?"

Edwyn's children turned their heads to their father at that question. Edwyn's brow continued to resemble a gathering storm cloud, but eventually, he answered. Slowly, deliberately, as if weighing the import of every word.

"Why did we save you? Truth be told, I don't know. We went to Mummer's Ford to look for survivors, wounded men in need of help and prayer. Because that's what the gods wish o' us - to help those who can't help themselves, no matter their actions or crimes. Instead, we found you. Truth be told, I wanted to leave you there, leave the vermin to have their way with you and burn the remains. You are not a creature of the gods, I know that now. But Benjicot here - you owe your life to him, not me. The lad had more faith in you then I had, and convinced me that we knew not your crimes, so we should treat you to the same hospitality we would provide the blackest of rogues with."

Benjicot seemed to shrink back into the dark, his hair almost melting back in the shadow of the barn, as he tried to seek solace from the piercing gaze of both his father and the mysterious stranger who continued to intrigue and terrify him at the same time.

"I see now I put too little trust in the gods. An honest man would've repaid me honesty with honesty of his own. But you, Geralt of Rivia, are a secretive man. Now, I might just be a simple miller, but I know a thing or two when it comes to mysterious, armed men - they rarely are a good omen. And that's not even mentioning your witch eyes and pale hair, which I should've immediately seen for what they are - warnings. Is that not so, Geralt of Rivia?"

A long silence followed, interrupted only by the buzzing of flies and mosquitos in the barn. Melissa and Benjicot were barely breathing, while Geralt looked intensely into Edwyn's eyes, and saw in them gathered the same emotions, same reactions he had read in the eyes of the men around him his entire life, in hundreds of eyes which silently, coldly judged him without knowing him, always arriving at the same conclusion. Yet was he not partly to blame for that? He hadn't lied, yet he knew full well he did not speak the truth either. He had treated yet another person how life had treated him - coldly, remotely, with no mercy or understanding. What devils must rule in the guise of gods if they saw fit to create a thousand worlds, yet make each one as cruel and contemptuous as the other?

Geralt laughed out loud, startling the kids and provoking a raised eyebrow from Edwyn. "It would appear the snake had already bitten into its tail" he then said, grinning like a man who had nothing left to lose.

"I am truly sorry for treating you like this, Edwyn. You are correct. I haven't told you all that I know. Truth be told, I myself don't know as much as I'd want to. But safe to say, I mean no harm to you or your family. If I withhold something from you, it is not because of some ulterior motive, but simply because I am not sure whether the whole truth would do you - or me for that matter - any good. I have spent most of my life dealing with people who, intentionally or not, misunderstood and feared who I am and what I do. A lifetime like that makes one value his privacy, even more when he is as uncertain as I am right now. But again, I assure you - no harm will come to your family. Not from me, no matter what you decide to do with me."

"And whatever should I do with you, Geralt of Rivia? What will you do when I release you from your bonds?" asked Edwyn. Though he tried to seem calm and collected, Geralt read from the sweat that gathered in his brow that he was highly alert, as millions of possible scenarios raced through his brain and weighed all the possible outcomes against each other.

He focused on the children. Melissa tried to act as stoic and self-confident as her father, but her act was slipping. Geralt saw how much he unnerved her, how much he unnerved her father, and felt… almost ashamed, though he knew full well he had nothing to be ashamed about. He did not choose this life, he did not undergo the changes out of free will, he did not wish to become whatever he had become, but here he was, a pariah even in another world, forever to be feared and loathed and avoided by all the men around him. He saw a faint glimmer of disgust in her eye, and though he had long since gotten used to seeing such an emotion in others, and he barely knew the auburn-haired girl, sorrow still passed over him, as the full weight of this realisation rested on him.

Benjicot was different though. He was not frightened, in fact he seemed to be constantly thrilled throughout Geralt's interrogation, as if he could not wait to gather more knowledge on the peculiar being he had helped to rescue. Geralt sensed in him a raw desire, a passion for life, and knew that no matter how much his family may try to restrain him, Ben had likely inherited the wandering legs of his father along with his hair and eyes. Vesemir had taught all his pupils to recognize these traits in young men instinctively, as boys like these made the best recruits at Kaer Morhen.

Geralt sighed and answered truthfully.

"I am not from this land, Edwyn. Not from this realm, you might say. I have no knowledge how I got here or how to get home… wherever that might be. But I've wandering legs and getting out of tough situations is nothing new to me. You ought to know a thing or two about that yourself, Edwyn. The way your children look at you, the way they expect you to have all the answers, to answer all the questions… You have seen a bit of the world yourself, haven't you? An judging by that scar on your cheek, you are no stranger to getting stuck in tight places either. What weapon was it? An axe? A sabre?"

"A halberd - I was quick when I was young. Too quick for me own good at times. Seems that trait hasn't completely faded" said Edwyn, turning his gaze to Ben yet again, making the boy shrink a little at first, though only for a moment, before the lad proudly straightened his back yet again.

"Either way" continued the witcher "I have no notion of what to do now. All I know is I need to get someplace through which I can get back home. A place with a lot of information and a lot of trade, if such a combination is plausible in these parts. That is my first objective. But I've no notion of how to even get to such a place, let alone whether it exists. Under regular circumstances, I would attempt to repay you. But I haven't an orion to my name, I have naught to sell that I won't need, and few skills that may be of use to your family. So, if you release me, right this moment, I will try to find out how to get there, and hopefully make it out alive before this land is engulfed in war. Because war is coming, Edwyn, isn't it?"

"Aye, it is" answered Edwyn, surprisingly resolutely, with such firmness and certainty in his voice that even Geralt, who had grown to expect long, though-through responses from the man, was taken a little aback. Not even speaking of Edwyn's children, who grew visibly distressed at the prospect. Evidently, their parents had long since driven any ideas of the glory of war out of their heads - at least when it came to being peasants in the crossfire.

"I cannot get involved. I have a… code. A code that strictly forbids me from spilling human blood for any reason safe for self-defence. Tell me, do your lords fight using levies? Mercenaries? It matters not, sooner or later, one of them will run into me and try and drag me into their pointless little conflict, one way or the other. That cannot happen. Especially now. I have no idea what the repercussions might be if I did have to get involved. I have to leave, Edwyn, as soon as possible."

Geralt put the sincere, real distress he felt into those words. During the initial exchange, he had tried to remain cold and distant, the way a witcher should be, but now, he found complete sincerity was the best thing he could do. That was the only way he could avoid repaying service with ingratitude.

"If there is anything" he said "that you would have of me, say it now and I will judge it and if it's in my power I will do it, but say it now, loud and clear, and then let me go…."

Edwyn grimaced at that. His expression had been growing steadily grimmer throughout Geralt's monologue, but only after he had finished had Geralt realised how badly he had misfired.

"That's what you think, eh? That we's rescued you for coin? Or to make a slave o' you? Is there so little faith in the goodness o' man left in you, Geralt of Rivia? We rescued you, for we thought you were in need o' help, for a man who leaves a fellow man to rot upon the battlefield is no man, but a slug, unworthy to ask the seven for help when his crop starts dying or when fever grips his youngsters. The Mother teaches us "treat your fellow man as if he were your brother by blood, for when all else dies, only the family survives, and caring for one's family is the man's privilege and duty". Do you have a family, Geralt of Rivia?"

"No."

"Did you ever have one? Did you hear the cries o' your child in your arms, or lose your senses in the arms o' your wife?"

"No."

"Did you ever try, at least?"

"... No."

"That's what I thought" said Edwyn, with a face twisted with disgust. "You're no man, Geralt of Rivia. You'd never be capable of gratitude, you've no concept o' honour, or duty, or decency. You make a mockery of a man who reaches out his hand to you in times of need, you spit poisoned lies and half-truths in his face, you suspect the motives of a family which takes you in, even when they know whence you must have come from and what your arrival means, and afterwards you humiliate them by asking how much did it all cost? Oh, I'll tell you, Geralt of Rivia, I'll tell you what it cost me. It cost me a small part o' me faith in the gods, for they saw fit to tempt their loyal followers with a creature as wretched as you, evil in the eye and twisted in the form!"

Edwyn steadily began raising his voice, increasingly deepening it one word at a time, his children staring at him wide-mouthed with their mouths opened. They evidently did not recognize their father like this, which gave Geralt one last piece of the puzzle he needed. He was not the cause of Edwyn's anger - not the real one at least. But he would be his punching bag (perhaps even a literal one). Geralt let him talk, did not defend himself, merely stared in oblique silence at the furious old man sitting in front of him - partly because if this was a way to repay his debt at least a little, he was more than willing to take it. Partly because, in many things, he agreed.

"You wish to know what you can do for us?" asked Edwyn, slowly beginning to calm down "Take your things, your blades for killing rats, your queer poisons, take 'em all and leave. Leave and never come back."

Not only was his clothing in one piece, it was clean and dry, neatly folded on a small pile in the corner of the shed. Geralt took it in his hands and took in the smell of his vest and shirt. The smell of horse, piss and shit was gone, and though no particular smell had taken its place, Geralt nevertheless considered this a massive improvement.

Edwyn had cut his bindings, then bid his children to leave, not speaking a word. Geralt tried to stand, but found he still had some difficulty compelling his feet to obey him. Oafishly, he made his way to the corner of the shed where his possessions were laid down in neat stacks. Edwyn hadn't lied. Everything was in order, as it should be. Geralt checked all his potions and poisons, and all the herbs stashed in the hidden pockets and brushes. Everything was undamaged and in place.

After inspecting his things, he donned his brown pantaloons, his white shirt he overlaid with the arming vest made from brown leather, he pulled on the steel-knuckle gloves he had grown fond of in the recent years, and finally, he threw the richly decorated (and suspiciously cheap) Viroledan blade over his back. Thus prepared (even if still feeling a little unsteady and with his head spinning slightly) he walked out of his former cell.

The bright sunlight of early noon almost blinded him, and he had to blink in rapid succession to clear his eyes. When his eyesight cleared at last, he saw he was standing in a small courtyard, next to a large house made of stone and a watermill, and a fairly new one as well, no older than 10 years judging by its respective state. The house was larger than one would expect from a simple miller, with clean white coating and a thick straw roof. The mill itself was made of wood and stone, with the huge wooden wheel dipped into the river slowly, methodically turning, accompanied by a monotonous, yet strangely soothing creaking and splashing.

The courtyard was sizable as well, with a more-or-less square shape and surrounded from three sides by buildings - the mill, the house and the barn from which Geralt emerged - and by a sparse forest from the west, with a narrow, yet recognizable path cutting straight through it. Geralt recognized most of the trees - there were beeches, spruces, birches, willows and pines, but some of the larger trees he did not recognize. Next to him, by the barn, an old wagon had been stationed, and Geralt spied two mules grazing peacefully next to the forest.

The family was nowhere to be seen, yet Geralt's keen hearing still recognized muffled calls coming from the watermill. It appeared as though father and son were hard at work. Of the female family members, there seemed to be no trace. The sun was warm, as warm as it was in Rissberg, yet Geralt could feel that here, the summer was coming to an end, soon to be replaced by autumn chill.

Discomfort flew over him with that realisation. He had at most four months to get to know this world and prepare for winter, else he risked freezing to death in the middle of wilderness. He had to get moving to… where exactly? He had no idea where precisely lay the locations Edwyn had mentioned. Stoney Sept, Oldtown, Maidenpool, Duskendale… King's Landing. Yes, Geralt was sure he would avoid the latter at all costs. He had an… unenviable track record when it came to dealing with the cream of society, no matter the nation, and he doubted the kings of this world were wiser, humbler or more generous than their counterparts in the North.

Geralt felt stiff. His muscles were still aching, his legs were shaking slightly, and one of his eyes was twitching, which annoyed the witcher more than anything else. He had to compose himself, and immediately knew how.

"Training is the best rest any warrior can hope for" he heard Vesemir say. When we train, our body realizes things are about to become more difficult, and so it suppresses the pain and pumps us full of happiness, so that we have the strength to continue in whatever exercise we are doing."

Geralt drew his sword. The blade was beautiful, there was no doubt about that, but Geralt had no idea how long it would last. He could try and sell it for something better, since he would most definitely not be getting his witcher swords back anytime soon. No matter that now.

He relaxed his muscles, let his body calm down, breathed in deep, and then began. Just like he and Eskel practiced a thousand times.

Right slash. Left slash. Spin. Pirouette. Left slash. Right slash. Pommel. Thrust. Pirouette. Thrust. Pommel. Spin. Lunge.

He began repeating the sequence, again and again, and as he practiced, he gleefully felt his strength returning to him, filling his gut with fire and clearing the swirling thoughts in his head like a ray of sunlight clears a stormy sky. The weight of the blade in his hand soothed him, calmed his mind and reinvigorated his battered body. He continued, twisting and turning around the courtyard, losing all sense of time and place….

"Whoa! Serra, you saw that?! I told you he was…."

"Shush it Sarra, or you'll spook him!"

Geralt almost cut off his own foot with the blade, so quickly did he turn to the sound that so startled him. He had become oblivious in his training, and did not at all notice that a small audience had gathered to watch him practice. On the stairs to the house sat the raven-haired twins, Sarra and Serra, one still gaping at him in awed silence, the other grinning with joy at her sister. Behind them stood their mother, her lean figure appearing even taller besides the tiny children, and she had a reserved, yet sincere smile on her face as she looked from her daughters to Geralt. Geralt also noticed Benjicot, who had apparently finished his work at the watermill, and was now looking at him in awed silence, leaning against the stony wall of the building behind him.

"Again, again! T'was amazing!" cried one of the twins, whom her sister named Sarra. Her bright emerald eyes shone with such absolute, boundless joy, so common in little children, it might have made Geralt blush when he was still human.

"Sarra, did a mule eat your manners? Tis' not how we treat a guest, demanding he perform tricks like a ghiscari monkey!" said her mother, but not too harshly.

"He would've continued too, had you just shut your big yap" said the other twin, Serra, with a level of almost queenly arrogance she made sure her sister would hear.

"I'll shut your…" began Sarra, but one glare from their mother shut both the girls up like disobedient puppies, after which they moved aside to allow their mother to walk down the stairs and approach Geralt.

"We haven't been properly introduced, ser. My name is Lucia, I am wife to Edwyn and mother of the family. I do hope my husband was not too harsh when…. questioning you, though I am afraid that was not the case. You have to forgive him, he's been very troubled these past few days, and isn't thinking entirely straight. I wished to be present, to soothe his temper, but I soon found that allowing these two" she waved her hand to the twins "to be present would do nobody any good, and I couldn't leave them unguarded together. You know how children are, ser."

"Oh yes, I do" said Geralt. _Fool_, whispered a soft voice in his skull, yet he blocked it out and continued the conversation. "And you needn't call me ser, lady Lucia, for if it means what I think it means, you are sorely mistaken in your judgment of me. I am no knight, and I doubt I'll ever become one at this point."

"Well then we are even - you see, I haven't been a lady either, not for some time at least. But how come a man as skilled with the blade as you is not a knight, se…. Geralt? If you are of low birth, where did you learn to wield a sword like that?"

As Geralt tried to string together a rationally sounding answer, Benjicot approached the two of them, an eager, almost hungry look in his eye. Geralt recognized that look - he remembered seeing it on the faces of so many other boys he had known and trained with during his first year at Old Sea Fort. He would have to pick his words carefully.

"I learned these skills in a far-away land, using tools and techniques now most likely lost to memory. Even I don't remember the half of what I went through in that place. Things just sort-of…. happened."

"I see" said Lucia, a thoughtful look in her eyes. Benjicot's smile fell just a little bit, but the boy noticed this and quickly composed himself, adopting a restrained, even if very unconvincingly distant composure, as if Geralt's answer didn't interest him in the slightest.

"But look at us! Here we are, questioning you like you were a prisoner in the black cells, while you must be starving! Are you hungry, Geralt? I made gruel with bacon, the children love it, and there's aplenty left for you if you would like some."

Geralt wanted to say no. Then, he realised his stomach was no longer filled with adrenaline, and that it was hurting instead, blunt, spiky stabs of pain making a battlefield of his innards. And all he had in his satchels were stripes of dried meat and a handful of apples….

"Yes, I would be indebted to you for a bowl of something sound" said Geralt, as politely as he could.

"Excellent. Come in, come, its cooler inside. Ben, have you eaten? No? Well come then, there's food enough for everyone."

Geralt was not wrong. The house was much more spacious than he had originally though. There were three rooms apart from the main hall, and though he could not see the other two, the kitchen alone was most impressive. Two wooden benches were laid across it, with a large black pot gleefully bubbling on a heated, stone fireplace. Most interesting, however, was the long, horizontally suspended sword hanging from the wall opposite the entrance. The blade was bright and sharp, evidently well cared for, and the crossguard, pommel and handle, while not as richly decorated as his viroledan blade, were elegantly engraved with writing and pictures too small for Geralt to decipher at this distance. Opposite the sword, on the other wall, was similarly suspended a large bouche shield, apparently as well maintained as the sword, with a peculiar sigil painted on it - a raven's wing with a silver trim to its feathers on a blood-red background.

"I see your husband's a soldier" said Geralt, sitting down on the bench. Benjicot sat opposite to him, whilst Lucia grabbed two large wooden bowls and set about filling them with the juicy, savoury contents of the pot. The smell made Geralt salivate, and his belly began making the strangest of noises.

"Oh, no, not anymore. That was long ago. Ancient history you might say. He's a different man now" said Lucia with her back turned to the table. There was something different about her, something that set her apart from not only her husband, but also her children, Melissa included. She reminded Geralt of a piece of a broken mirror, shattered in such a way it could never entirely fit in with its surroundings. He wondered what exactly it was about her that gave that impression. She was dressed just as modestly as the rest of the family, in a simple dress of red and yellow, and while she was quite beautiful, especially for a woman her age, she definitely had her maiden years long behind her, and she carried herself proudly, but with none of the overcompensating noblesse that most royalty in Geralt's own world so preferred.

"He mentioned getting his scar from an enemy halberd. Did he fight in many wars?" remarked Geralt conversationally, though not without a great deal of interest veiled behind his casual tone.

"Da' used to be one of lord C…." began Benjicot, but his mother spun around like a whirlwind and the rest of the sentence seemed to evaporate on the lad's lips. Lucia placed a bowl of gruel before each of them, and the boy began starring into his so intently as if he had hopes of finding a ruby in its depths.

"I am afraid I could not do justice to Edwyn's early life - I wasn't there for most of it, sadly enough" replied Lucia eventually, taking a seat as well, all the while studying Geralt intently. "Safe to say, he knew his way around with the blade - elsewise he wouldn't have made the coin to build the mill. It is a fairly new building, as you have probably noticed, and we built it at great expense. The gods have been good to us, however, and we have managed to make ends meet ever since."

"That is always good to hear. Many folks are not so lucky in the parts I hail from" Geralt said, after gulping down another huge spoon of the gruel. It was delicious, greasy and salty, and the bacon was also a welcome addition to it.

"I am sorry to hear that. If I may ask, how were you doing back in your motherland, Geralt? You certainly seem to be well enough provisioned, and your clothes…. I dare say I have rarely seen leather of such quality, and I know my way around clothing" said the lady of the house, and even though she tried to sound as simply curious, Geralt saw where the conversation was heading from a mile away, and he didn't like it one bit. Still, he decided he would play along, if for no other reason than simply as a form of gratitude for the food.

"I have also been able to make ends meet, fortunately. It just so happens that I do not own a mill, or any other estate for that matter. The road is my courtyard and the elm tree is my roof, at least most of the time. If I earn a bit more coin than usual, I spend it on things I can carry on my back or in my horses saddle-bags, which makes me seem quite a bit wealthier than I truly am."

"Are you a sellsword then?" asked Ben. This time, surprisingly, his mother did not interrupt him, but merely continued to study Geralt with her curious, cobalt eyes.

"I wouldn't use that phrase exactly" said Geralt, looking from mother to son "but yes, there is no point in denying it, I do make use of a sword in my craft."

"That's putting it mildly. I've never seen no man wield a sword as quick as you. It seemed a feather in your hands, not a steel blade. Tell me, how long did it take you to learn all that?" asked Ben, flames flickering in his youthful gaze.

"Twenty years. And I am still learning" replied Geralt, and barely held back an amused grin when he saw the speed with which the lad's smile faded from his features.

"You are a skilled man, that much is certain" remarked Lucia, and Geralt was finally able to deduce what it was about her that didn't seem to fit. It was her accent - or more precisely, the way in which she spoke. Though she emphasized the same vowels and syllables as the rest of her family, Lucia used a distinctly more fanciful vocabulary, and her words had more of a finesse and grace when spoken, telling of high-quality education - something that cannot be simply mimicked by listening to other people speak, but that has to be learned, ingrained into men and women alike from birth. The pieces began to fit, and Geralt knew what would come next.

"We've need of skilled men around these parts, especially in days like these. Specifically, a helping hand that knows how to wield a sword would be a gift from the gods themselves" she began to weave her proposal, just as Geralt had predicted.

"You appear to have raised quite a cosy little estate in these parts - your children don't seem to comprehend the concept of war" said Geralt, nodding to Benjicot, who, upon understanding what the foreign swordsman meant, began gathering breath for a doubtless vigorous protest, but a quick glance at his mother dissuaded him from it in a heartbeat. "Your lands seem to be bountiful and green. Yet now there's a battlefield half a day's ride from your home. What's changed?"

"Truth be told - I've no idea" said Lucia, with a despair in her voice honest enough to take Geralt aback. Ben looked at her wearily as she continued.

"It's been almost fourteen years since Robert's Rebellion…"

"The Usurper's War" Ben interrupted his mother, somewhat rudely, but she seemed to pay him no mind.

"Things were peaceful, things were prosperous. We threatened no one, trade was stable and the harvests plentiful. True, sometimes one lord took offense at the actions of another and they would ride to battle over one scrap of land or the other, but never anything that threatened to escalate or really cause trouble for the smallfolk. Until now."

"Raiders from the Westerlands have been pillaging the surrounding lands for weeks now. Ser Gregor's men they say, aye, no better than common cutthroats and highwaymen, and more peculiar characters as well, men with painted beards and braids in their hair and tanned skin, men with blood on their hands and murder in their gaze all, flying queer eastern banners, if the survivors are to be believed" said Ben, taking the lead instead of his mother. "They razed Sherrer, Wendish Town, even Mummer's Ford to the ground, and slaughtered lord Beric's retinue to a man! Men were butchered or impaled, women and girls raped, babes hacked apart in their cribs! People say they played games with the heads they cut off the smallfolk, and the skies are ablaze night after night with each village they raze! And what's the king doing? Sitting on his arse, hunting game and fucki…."

"That is enough, Ben!" said his mother, in a firm, slightly agitated voice "I had hopes you would help me in this, not give in to juvenile outrage! Out! Now!"

"But ma', I've just…"

"Now!"

Ben stood up so quickly he nearly threw the table over. Anger now danced in his eyes, but he swallowed whatever protests he may have had and walked out of the room, stomping his feet in an almost comedic manner. Lucia sat down and relaxed back into her seat.

"Like father, like son" she remarked under her breath.

"Your children seem to have a great deal of respect for you" remarked Geralt as he put aside the now empty bowl, somewhat bemused by the outburst, but deeply disturbed by Ben's words. If the war was already this severe, there would be little time for him to get out of the way - and even then, he could not be sure where to go so as to avoid the apparently plentiful marauding bands.

"They best have - only Melissa knows how to cook apart from me, and she mislikes her siblings" said Lucia with a tired, short laugh. "But despite how Ben said it, what he said was true. I am not sure how much you know about our politics and lords, Geralt…."

"Nothing at all."

"Well, I don't know much either, but I have seen war once in my life. I am not prepared to see it again, not now" she said, looking at something very, very far away above Geralt's shoulder, and placing her hands instinctively on her stomach.

"I've been trying to persuade Edwyn to leave - to go south or east, out of the way of advancing armies, but he's been hesitant thus far. He's invested more than just coin into this place - there's blood and sweat and soul amid these stones, mine and his. He's …. never mind, that would be of no use to you either way, Geralt. I am sure he knows we have to leave this place, but he's made use of all the possible excuses not to do so. He claims that we are in a good spot here, few men know where the mill stands, and if we set upon the roads, we'd have a much higher chance of running into bandits - and he says he couldn't protect us if that happened."

A long, awkward silence followed that remark. Lucia seemed to suddenly be observing anything except her guest's face, while Geralt put on a weary, distant expression.

"You want me to escort you - to guard you while you make your escape" he said eventually, in a slow, deliberate manner, stressing every word as though he was a toddler speaking them for the first time. "That is a big thing to ask from a complete stranger. How do you know I won't rob you - slit your throats and take your belongings along the way? How do you know that, even if I do agree, I won't get cold feet if it does come to a skirmish and will instead try to save my own hide?"

"I don't" she admitted, still avoiding eye contact, "but Ben and Melissa told me of your conversation with Edwyn. He thinks you an ungrateful creature spawned of hell, but I know better, for I know he merely sees his former self in you, and that vexes him immensely. I think you are a man of honour, Geralt of Rivia, and you would not break a word sincerely given of your own free will. And when I saw you with the blade, I knew you had both the skill and the heart to stand by your promise. A mother knows these things" she said, caressing her belly thoughtlessly, still looking into the distance. Then she turned, and looked Geralt square in the eye.

"We've not much, Geralt, and I won't pretend you have a debt to pay back to us for taking you in - Edwyn and Ben would have done that for anyone in need, and so would I. But I appeal to you, one parent to another - we are in desperate need of your help, no matter what Edwyn may tell you."

"I am not anyone's parent" said Geralt, his voice quieter than even he expected.

"Trust me, you are, Geralt, even if you don't know of it yet…"

"No, Lucia, I am fairly certain I have no children. I am incapable of producing offspring" he insisted._ And it cost me dearly_.

"Whoever did these…. things to you must have been very cruel then, to deny you your chance at a future. Yet I am convinced you are a parent to someone - or you will be, soon enough. And I know our problems are not yours to concern yourself with, but I beg of you, help us get to Stoney Sept at least. Tis' no more than four days ride south of here, and you can have anything you want from what we have after we have arrived."

Now it was Geralt's turn to look away in deep thought. He felt ashamed, ashamed that he could not find it in himself to say "Yes, of course I will help", even to people who had done much for him without any demand for compensation, that he once again found himself involved in bargaining and haggling over his services. Yet old dogs are notoriously bad at learning new tricks. He was not accustomed to providing favours, even to people who needed them. That was the witcher code,_ his_ code. If he began serving people for free, other witchers, less skilled or fortunate than him, would get a bad reputation for demanding coin for their work, whilst others did it for free. And he had to eat and look after himself as well, especially in a world as hostile as his. That was just how it always went.

And he killed monsters. Sometimes of the human kind, sure, but he could never be hired to kill a man like a common mercenary - aplenty of those were around even without him to add his superhuman prowess to the matter. And it didn't seem like this world, or at least this part of it, had anything the locals would consider monsters or beastly predators - war was the only beast they feared. And, it would appear, they were right to fear it - attacks of such scale could only mean one thing, an escalation of conflict which would see the age-old tradition of "war feeding itself" repeated on countless small settlements. It didn't matter how infrequently the mill was visited, how well hidden it may be on the maps - Geralt knew that the thirst of blood in man was as strong as that of a vampire, if not stronger at times, and that eventually, sooner or later, this lovely little estate would be reduced to nothing but ash and rubble. That was just how it always went.

But still…. there were no other witchers in this world. And here, he was not a witcher either - just a queer man, armed with queer weapons, dressed in queer clothes, drifting from place to place, looking for something he was unlikely to ever find. And it seemed as though the only monsters he may meet in this world would be those who fought with steel and called themselves warriors. And heck, why should he not get a chance to start over? No one knew anything about him. No one understood what he was. Society was waiting to see what he would do - no one was expecting him to be a witcher now.

And yet… thoughts gnawed at him from the back of his head. He could still return. There was still hope. He had already lived with the knowledge that he was seen as an outcast by the world, but could he live with the knowledge that he himself had broken his own rules, become a hypocrite, a condescending moralist busybody who no longer practiced what he preached, just because of a temporary change in circumstance? Was he prepared to live with the knowledge that he not only had blood on his hands, but with a blackness on his conscience as well?

And one more thing ate at him as well, a memory that appeared again and again in the back of his mind - a dream of raven hair, blacker than Edwyn's or Benjicot's, of sapphire eyes and full red lips, of the most beautiful, mysterious smile and of great loss and pain that weighed him down like a boulder wherever he went. No, he knew that instant he would have to come back.

And yet….

"I am not a good man, Lucia. I have done many things I am not proud of" said Geralt, slowly turning his head back to Lucia, who had been studying him intently all the while. She accepted the news in stony silence, and so he continued.

"I have some skills, that is true. Maybe they will be enough to protect you, maybe not. I can't make any promises. My skills with the sword are used for purposes other than killing men - most of the time, that is. But what you are asking of me is something I was forbidden to do - by my tutors, by my friends and by myself. I know full well that doing this would likely not impact them in any significant way. But this is a matter of being able to look them in the eyes if I ever see them again. Do you understand, Lucia?"

"I do" she answered, and Geralt believed her.

Neither of them spoke for a good while after that. Finally, after what seemed like eternity, Geralt stood and prepared to leave.

"Thank you for the food, Lucia. It was quite delicious" he said, and began turning around to walk away.

"What is your answer then, Geralt?" asked Lucia, in a calm, yet somewhat strained voice.

"I need to think. And find a bed for myself somewhere around here - the sun is beginning to set, and I've…"

"Why, is there something wrong with the bed?"

"What? No, I simply figured that since Edwyn…"

"Nonsense! Edwyn or not, I am still the lady of the house, and I will not let our guest sleep in the woods like a stray hound. Please, Geralt, make yourself at home in the barn for the night, I trust it will be to your satisfaction even while you're lucid."

"Thank you, lady Lucia" said Geralt, with his throat feeling tighter than it used to.

"So, shall we hear your answer tomorrow? You are most right, of course, it would do neither you nor us any good to make such important decisions before sunrise comes. Sleep well, ser Geralt. And please, do consider what I am asking of you." "I will" promised Geralt, as sincerely as he could. _I will_. Yet deep down, he already knew he had made his choice.

He trained inside the barn for about two more hours then, trying to relieve his still somewhat stiffened muscles, when he heard the shouting. It was very high, so much so that he heard it almost completely clearly even through multiple walls, though of course, his ears were far from ordinary. Edwyn's voice mixed with Lucia's, and both of them began firmly, then became increasingly agitated and aggressive, until finally, Lucia was reduced to sobbing and Edwyn's voice disappeared. The sobs continued for a few more minutes, and then finally ceased, and the house became submerged in the calm darkness of the night. With a sigh, Geralt laid on the straw, and tried to drown out the constant, nagging, stabbing thoughts inside his cranium, that were accusing him for what he was about to do in the morning.

This time, his dream was different. He was once again leaving Kaer Morhen for the first time, but when he saw himself in the dream, it was no longer him. He hadn't been that person, no, not him, not for many years. He wondered why dreams were so much more vivid in this world, and whether everyone was affected. Somehow, he found he doubted that. The younger Geralt was whistling as he rode, the look in his eyes wide and curious, hungry for life and adventure, a confident smile on his lips. Aahh, how well he remembered that smile. This Geralt too had long white hair and viper eyes, but his face had far, far fewer scars, his look was untroubled and his body language was that of a truly young person, not one of an old man trapped inside a youngster's body. Geralt found he remembered little and less of those days as time went on, but this memory he could recall clearly. So when the young Geralt halted his mare on the nearest curve, and when his features hardened with disgust and anger, he knew what to expect.

A group of rough-clad marauders had ambushed a merchant wagon. While a few were already looting every square inch of the vehicle for anything and everything they could get their hands on, and a few others were kicking a beating a corpulent, well dressed man from all sides, one of them, a gaunt, pale, disease-ridden ruffian with a bald head and terrible teeth, was dragging besides him a small, terrified little girl, no older than twelve, with dirty blonde hair and an olive-green skirt. The girl was crying, screaming, kicking, begging, but her kidnapper only laughed and continued pulling her aside, flanked by two other bandits.

"Come now, ya wee slut, come, lemme show ya what a real man looks like!" the rapist was cackling maniacally, while the girl's screams reached a hysterical crescendo as the other two bandits firmly grasped her arms and legs, giggling like apprentices looking at a fine-looking page.

The bald one began untying his belt, a hungry, animal look in his watery little eyes. Then he suddenly gasped for air. And then again, but now he began coughing, and from his mouth spilled blood and saliva. It fell on a shiny, meteorite steel blade that was now protruding from his chest. The would-be rapist, rather than howl in pain, looked more surprised than anything else, as if someone had just lightly slapped him, and went to his knees, whilst the blade was already slipping out from the wound.

Young Geralt spun around, his eyes burning, burning with righteous fire and indignation, as he slashed the first marauder square in the face. With a disgusting, wet sound, the bandit's jaw was gone, bloody teeth and scraps of tongue and cheeks hanging from his head as he collapsed. The other man tried to flee, but Geralt, still filled with inextinguishable fury, slashed again, and the man's throat disappeared in a cloud of red, wet mist.

Blood flowed.

The bald man was still looking at the gaping wound in his chest when young Geralt stood before him, sword in hand. As the dying wretch of a man looked up into his killer's eyes, the last words he heard before the witcher cut him from shoulder to groin were "This is what a real man looks like."

Geralt turned from the massacre. The other bandits fled, but so had the fat merchant. No matter, he would find them later, all of them. He turned back to the girl. And the old Geralt watched his younger self freeze in horror.

The girl, far from being grateful, was hysterical, screaming her lungs out in a mad fit, as she was covered in the blood, guts and teeth of the bandits. Geralt saw he had made a mistake, and tried to calm her, leaning in close and trying to silence her, but the moment he got close to her, she reached her crescendo, and began throwing up. After she had stopped and began gasping for breath, she fainted and passed out amid the guts of her attacker.

Young Geralt looked at his handiwork with an utter disgust he had never felt before. He was disgusted, not so much by the dead raiders, but by what he did to them. The sword fell from his hands. He went to his knees and bowed his head low, despairing at the cruelty of the world, despairing at dreams and hopes that now seemed to spill from his hands along with the blood he had shed.

It had been that moment that shaped the rest of Geralt's whole life more than anything else. In a heartbeat, he knew the terrible, unspeakable truth - no matter what he did, whom he helped, how he acted, society had already decreed his place within it, and by extension, his fate as well. He could try as hard as he may, he knew, to the real world, he would forever remain a monster, nay, not a monster, but something even worse, something darker and less human even than the ghouls and strigas he would be sent to thanklessly slay, for in him, the monstrous and the human met to create the abominable, that which people hated most of all, and what they would never let him forget, no matter where he went or whom he tried to be.

The older Geralt was turned away when that moment came. He knew it would come, he had anticipated it, and he did not wish to see it again. Yet as he did so, he immediately sensed that this time, something was amiss, something was different. He turned around and looked at the scene of carnage. He shouldn't have.

The face of the bald man was no longer his own. Instead, from the puddle of blood in which they lay, Edwyn's dead eyes gazed upon him, a wordless accusation still evident in them. Geralt turned, and saw that the marauder with his throat cut open was gone as well, Benjicot in his place, his body still convulsing as he struggled desperately to breathe amid his final death throes. And the one who lost his lower jaw… Geralt could scantily look at the mangled corpse of Lucia, whose body had been contorted into a hideous, bloody mockery of human form, yet her deep, cobalt eyes remained lodged in Geralt's face, in his eyes, in his soul.

"Please" she whispered with her dying breath "save us".

With a gasp, Geralt awoke.

The night was already waning when Geralt walked out of the barn, sweating profusely and feeling anything but rested. The stars and the moon were still visible in the sky, but in the east, the faintest glimmer of sun's rays began gently shimmering the horizon. Geralt wanted to go practice at first, but instead he simply stood in the middle of the courtyard, gazing upward into the starry sky.

He recognized none of the constellations, just like before, and had no idea how far he was from his homeworld. He wondered if, perhaps, Tzara and Pinety were still looking for him. He somewhat doubted it - the two were never overly fond of him, and Geralt would not be surprised if they simply decided to hire another witcher to finish the job. It would appear that his chances of ever getting back home were as slim as can be. Engulfed in his gloomy thoughts, he noticed the shadow looking at him from the porch of the house only after a minute or so had passed.

"Bad dreams?" asked Benjicot.

"Yeah" replied Geralt, after a short hesitation.

"Da' says nightmares are common in times o' war. All the uncertainty, all the fear - he says it messes with your brain. Have you ever fought in a war, ser Geralt?"

"Not exactly. And I'm no knight, lad. Call me Geralt."

"Wouldn't be right and proper calling a swordsman such as you anything less than a knight, ser. Tell me, ser, who taught you? I've never seen much of combat meself. I've been to the big tourney in Stoney Sept once, see the big melee there, but none of them knights fought with your skill and grace, ser. How dangerous are the men in your land if you have to possess such skill?"

Geralt looked the boy over closely. Though only twelve years of age at most, Benjicot was a solid young man, well-built and energetic in his movement. He burned with the same eagerness Geralt used to, before life gave him a few well-placed kicks in the groin to make him realise what it was really about. And Ben also had about him the same frustration Geralt saw in many young boys of low birth, who were both eager and willing to take gets off their backsides and explore the world, but lacked the skills, the smarts or the resources to do so. He decided to ask the question pressing on his mind, even though he was sure he already knew the answer.

"I hear you were the one who convinced your father to take me in, despite my appearance. Question is, why? You are not a stupid boy, Benjicot, you must have known I was not an ordinary man, and that I could be dangerous to you and your family. So why speak up for me? Why help me?"

The boy's cheeks flushed red, not very intensely, but clearly enough that Geralt's cat-like eyesight could notice it in even in the darkness of early morning. Finally, Ben replied with the answer Geralt was expecting.

"Me da'… he doesn't want to teach me how to fight. Says 'tis not for godly men to spread violence in the world, for violence only breeds more violence and he who lives by the sword dies by the sword…"

"Those are wise words, Benjicot."

"He refuses to teach me anything except for how to defend meself from muggers in the streets. With me fists! What good will bare hands do me if some ruffian pulls a sword at me? Ha?!"

"More than you might think" replied the witcher, but the boy was once again on a roll, barely listening to him, as word after word spilled from his lips, filled with ever more pent-up anger and frustration.

"And it ain't like he doesn't know the world's not a safe place for me and me sisters" he continued. "He's taught us well, all o' us, how to shoot, hunt, ride, and even a bit of reading and writing - well, actually, ma' did most o' that - and he even wants us at his side when has to make a serious decision. Like today! He knows we ain't stupid, me and Melissa, yet he won't allow me to even swing the Dancing Lady! Not once!"

"So, you were hoping a complete stranger might teach you in exchange for saving his life? That is a bad idea, Benjicot, a stupid one actually. You had no idea who I was, or whether I knew how to fight at all. Or were you hoping to pay me? I could have just taken the money, taught you complete shite that looks pretty on the stage, but does you no good on the battlefield, and be on my merry way, knowing full well that the first man you come across will split you in two."

"But you didn't do that, so I was right" replied the boy, bluntly and somewhat insolently. But Geralt, far from being offended, let out a short, throaty laugh. Then he turned back to the boy, who meanwhile stood up and approached him, standing straight in front of Geralt and looking him square in the eye, showing not a hint of discomfort or disgust at the sight of the witcher's slit pupils.

"Please, ser Geralt, teach me. I'm damn near thirteen, right 'bout time I got to see the world! Da' was the same age when he got to do so! And your skills... I've never seen nothing like it! Looks almost like a dance, not combat, yet your blows were faster and stronger than anything I've ever seen in the town! Whom did you train to fight in such a foreign way?"

Geralt weighed what to say and what not to. Eventually, he decided he would be as honest as he could.

"Tell me, Benjicot, do you have trouble with monsters in these parts? And before you reply, know that I don't mean the human sort of monster - I am talking about basilisks, arachnids and trolls, not murderers and madmen" he said, as casually as if he were asking about the flavour of local beer.

"Call me Ben, ser, I dislike me full name" said the boy, evidently taken aback by the question. "As for monsters, folk spin all manner of spooky tales to scare the youngsters, of grumkins and squishers and demons, but most of them's turn out to be hogwash or ancient legends. Wasn't always so, however. Me ma' says that in the olden days, the whole of Westeros belonged to the Children o' the Forest - a queer folk, to be true, as small and skinny as Sarra and Serra, but ancient, aye, centuries old even. They learned the ravens to speak their tongue and carry their messages across the world, not just attach it to the bird's leg like the maesters do it today. They lived amid the woods and in the deepest forests, and their gods were the Old Gods, the gods of trees, stones and streams. Da' mentioned once he used to worship them too, and still holds them in high regard, for they see all and know all."

Geralt listened closely, barely breathing as the boy spoke. This was valuable information to him, as it would most likely determine just how much he would seem out of place in most human societies. The Children, from what Ben was saying, reminded him a great deal of the dryads of Brokilon forest, which was a good thing - it meant that the people here were not entirely unused to dealing with strange races. The troubling thing was that Ben kept referring to the Children in the past tense, and Geralt felt a distinct chill as he realised he knew where this age-old tale was heading.

"The Children shared Westeros with only one other race, the giants - they were said to look like men, but were hairy, like bears and boars, and their teeth were sharp and their mouths were so huge they could devour an oxen in two bites. They fought the Children from time to time, but most oft the two races lived side by side in harmony, not much caring about the other - the Children tended to the forests and meadows, while the giants lived in the mountains and on the wide, open plains, herding mammoths like men herd sheep. But that was not to last.

Through the Dornish arm, the First Men came, clad still in animal hides and tattered clothes, but armed with spears and swords o' bronze. They fought a long, cruel war against the Children and the giants, but eventually, both sides came to an agreement and made a pact on the Isle o' Faces, swearing eternal peace and letting the Children keep the deep woods. Then came the Long Night, and then the Age o' Heroes, when kingdoms were forged and monsters were slain, and the Children, and the giants, and all the other Elder Races faded into obscurity, and, in time, vanished entirely. 'Cept for dragons, no monsters had been seen or heard of south of the Wall for thousands o' years. Though some say that in the North, beyond the Wall, the giants still herd their mammoths and the Children still tend to their trees, like they did in the olden days. But that's most like poppycock."

_So, it would seem that the gods are indeed monsters_, thought Geralt. To repeat the same story over and over again in not one, but multiple words - of conquerors defeating, replacing and forgetting the conquered, of men destroying all in their wake and magical species falling into extinction and ballad, whilst their murderers named these ages of conquest and slaughter with names as pretentious and arrogant as "the Age of Heroes" – that took a cruel, twisted sense of humour no benign being could ever possess. He wanted to laugh, despite himself, but found that a throaty chuckle was all he was capable of producing. Then he replied to the eagerly standing boy.

"That is a pretty story you have, Ben. I see now that my homeland is even more similar to yours than I originally thought. Yet where I come from, there hasn't yet been an "age of heroes". In my homeland, monsters still terrorise the peasants in their fields and burgers in their streets, if left unchecked. A man's life can be extinguished as swiftly as candlelight, should he be so unfortunate as to come face to face with one of these beasts. That is why I was created - I, and hundreds of others like me. Where I come from, Ben, we do not slay men - we slay monsters. And if you trained three lifetimes, you could not hope to be as good as one of ours is, since we use a lot of methods I myself would be unable to replicate, even if I cared to try, during our…. training."

"You really slay monsters?" asked Ben, excitement in his voice so thick as to be almost palpable. "How many? What kind? Did you ever slay an Other? Or a basilisk? Is your homeland in Yi-Ti? They say there's all kinds of queer beats in their woods. And why ever would I be unable to learn what you know? I am a patient student, don't you worry 'bout that! I'm willing to devote my life to learning this, if that's what it takes!"

"It's not a matter of will. It's a matter of technique. Ancient knowledge is used to create one of us, and my creators never saw fit to share this knowledge with me. And as it happens, they are no longer in a state to share it with anyone, even if they cared to. Without their knowledge, no more monster slayers can ever be made."

For a moment, Ben's smile disappeared from his lips, but then it returned, as he put his hands on his hips, and firmly stated "Well, I don't have to be a monster slayer, I just have to learn how to wield a sword. You can teach me that, can't you?"

Geralt hesitated, weighing his answer.

"Theoretically, I could. If we had the time, the strength and some practice swords, well weighted…"

"Well, 'tis at least five days trip to Stoney Sept, if not a bit more with how Serra and Sarra are - that ain't much, but I'm a quick student, I swear, and…."

"Who told you I was going to escort you to the Stoney Sept?" asked Geralt, though he already knew the answer and began cursing quite profoundly in his mind.

"What do you mean, who told us? Ma' spent the whole o' night yelling at da' that now we finally have someone to help defend us along the way, that we should use that chance and get outta here. Da' disagreed, twas quite an argument really, worse than anything I or Melissa remember, but da' eventually always does as ma' tells him to. He says ma's cleverer than he is, so he'd be a proper fool to ignore her advice just to spite her - that, he says, is what women do."

"Aye, he did, and he hoped you wouldn't babble it out to our guest quite so soon" said Edwyn, standing in the door and frowning like a storm cloud. "Ben, remind me later to give a robust explanation o' why I don't wish you use to begin using a sword" he said to the suddenly red-faced youngster, as he walked down the stairs looking Geralt straight in the eye.

"We might've started out on the wrong foot" he said, folding his hands across his chest. "I am sorry if I offended you yesterday - it was not my intent, though I wouldn't blame you if you didn't believe me. Yet I remain firm in me stance - you should not stay here any longer than you need to. With respect, Geralt, I do not trust you, no matter what me wife says. And I trust you even less on the road. You are no bandit, that's clear enough, but for some reason, I get the impression you aren't particularly eager to serve as a guard, are you?"

"Your intuition is on point - I wasn't particularly thrilled at your wife's proposal. But I wouldn't reject a helping hand quite so fast if I were in your shoes. Tell me, Edwyn, how long's it been since you fought the last time? Ten years? More? A man goes out of practice faster than you'd guess, even if he doesn't avow to become a pacifist."

"There won't be need o' fighting. The Seven will watch over us, and see to it that we reach our destination unharmed" replied the miller, but even he didn't sound confident in that statement.

"I've been to many lands and known many gods, but they always seemed too busy to watch over their followers when it came to their woes - no doubt they were concerned with higher matters, I assume, but still" remarked the witcher.

Edwyn's eyes flashed. "Careful, Geralt of Rivia. I came to you in good faith, but I will not stand for you to mock me again. As I said, we won't be..."

His expression suddenly changed. His eyes widened, his face went almost as pale as Geralt's, and irritation on his face was replaced with an unspeakable horror as he looked at the western sky. Benjicot, who now saw it as well, went completely rigid, freezing in place, his expression that of shock and undiluted fear. Geralt turned to look at it as well, and when he did, he knew that if he had been physically capable of looking paler than usual, at that moment he would have been indistinguishable from a corpse. His muscles tensed and his heart rate spiked, and he knew he would have to start acting, fast, if he wished for them to make it out alive.

"Seven save us" whispered Edwyn under his moustache, "that's High Falls. High Falls is burning."

"Ben, go with Geralt, show him the trapdoor in the floor. He'll help you open it. Get inside and wait for us there. If we don't show before you hear the horses, close the hatch and wait at least a couple o' hours after you stop hearing noises from the surface. Got it?"

"But da'**, **I can't let you and ma'..."

"We'll be fine, son, don't you worry. We're right behind you. But you must go! Now!"

Ben hesitated, looking half defiant and half confused, but eventually, he obeyed, and began running for the barn. Edwyn turned to Geralt.

"I don't have time to plead for your help, if you wish to live, you'll do as I say. Grab your things, help Ben open the hatch and get inside. Don't wait for us, and if you hear horses neighing before we arrive, close it, immediately. And if that happens" he outstretched his hand to Geralt "take care o' Benjicot. We have friends in Stoney Sept, they owe me a favour. Tell the septon there Edwyn Rivers sends his regards - he'll know what to do. Just get him to town safely."

Geralt hesitated only for a moment. Then he gripped the other man's hand, firmly, and shook it, all their disputes immediately forgotten. "You have my word" the witcher told the miller.

Edwyn went running over to his home, while Geralt made his way to the barn. Immediately after he entered, he grabbed his sword from where it was laying besides his bed, unsheathing it in a second and grabbing in his other hand the bag containing his remaining possessions. Meanwhile, Benjicot began throwing off stacks of wheat, unveiling a hidden trapdoor in the corner of the barn. He started lifting it alone, but struggled until Geralt came to his help. Together, they opened the hatch, revealing a tiny underground space, no larger than free or four square meters, with a dirty, wooden ladder leading into its depths. Geralt nodded for Benjicot to go first, and the lad, after some hesitation, obeyed. After he climbed down, Geralt told him "Catch!" and threw his bag and the empty modified scabbard to the youth. Ben caught them both with ease.

"Hold them for me, I'll be right there" lied Geralt, and with his sword unsheathed, he turned to the closed door of the barn. There was a small hole inside the door, and the witcher pressed his eye against it, giving him a decent enough view of the courtyard.

For a short while nothing happened. Geralt herd rumbling and quick, heavy footsteps from the house, as the family scrambled to collect as much of their most necessary items as they could before departing the house. Then, suddenly, Lucia emerged from the house, a bag in her hand and one of the twins on her back, running toward the barn. Melissa followed, gripping a small leather pouch and another, slightly larger bag. Finally, Edwyn emerged, with the other twin on his back. In one hand, he was carrying a visibly heavy bag - in the other, he gripped the sword Geralt had seen hanging from the wall in the family kitchen.

They almost made it.

The riders were preceded by a sound not unlike thunder, so commonly linked to a cavalry charge. They emerged not long afterwards. There were approximately nine riders, nine men with weapons in their hands and murder in their eyes. They wore mismatched armour and clothing, apparently looted from various fallen adversaries and badly maintained, riddled with holes and tears and at times even rusted. Some sported kettle helms or skullcaps, most only had mail coifs for head protection, and two wore nothing at all, their heads completely exposed, showing their dirty, unkempt, greasy hair. Their armour consisted mostly of gambesons of various colours and in various conditions, with the occasional rusted mail shirt present as well. Three sported rusty plate shoulder pads, and leg armour was virtually absent with this lot, with only a single one of them wearing padded chaussures, so filthy they looked as though he forgot to take them off during a strike of diarrhoea. Which, considered Geralt, might have been exactly what caused their state to begin with.

Their weapons were as varied as their armour, though in a notably better state. Some made use of arming swords, others bore axes and one even carried a wooden maul with long, iron spikes. Several also held cavalry lances of medium length, with thick wooden handles and ugly, stubby points. Two of them held loaded crossbows as well. Finally, most of them carried heater shields, with crudely painted, but still recognizable sigils - three leaping black hounds on a yellow field.

Behind this band of bloodthirsty riders rode two other figures, notably different in their appearance from the rest of the band. One of them wore a somewhat more complete set of mail armour, complete with mail chaussures and a pig-faced helmet, whilst the other was downright exquisitely equipped, with a full set of evidently often worn, but nevertheless well-maintained set of heavily ornamented plate armour, complete with intricate etchings and silver lining on the pauldrons and the cuirass - yet most notable was the helmet. It was shaped vaguely like a horse's head, and Geralt noticed a long, curling horn protruding from its top, dyed in a bizarre, red colour the witcher had never seen on armour worn by northern lords. Even his horse was clothed in a brightly coloured silvery saddle-cloth, with a steel mask that also sported the same kind of curling unicorn horn, this time evidently made out of silver. The shield he bore was decorated as meticulously as his armour, and showed the sigil of a silver unicorn on an indigo field.

The riders caught the family in the middle of the courtyard. But far from simply killing them outright, the men simply rode their horses around them, creating a circle of spikes and blades which they lowered against their unfortunate victims, trapping Edwyn and the women between them. Edwyn hesitated, but then lowered his sword, seeing that violence was not an option for him. Geralt gripped his blade tighter and began sizing up the riders.

They were well built to a man, but they're dirty look went deeper than merely their clothing - there was something _rotten_ about them, something that spoke innately of chaos, mayhem, rape and slaughter, and Geralt immediately knew these men weren't here simply to kill. They were here to have some _fun_.

The twins began to cry. Melissa was holding up better for now, but Geralt could clearly see the tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. Lucia tried to calm her daughters, quietly whispering to them, but herself went as pale as marble, and Geralt knew that her pregnancy was probably kicking her urge to panic and flee into overdrive. Still, she remained calm and composed, at least for the moment.

Edwyn was the only one to meet the gaze of their attackers, a firm, defiant look in his eye as he too began sizing up his opponents. Geralt was taken aback by the marauder's composure and restraint - he had known bands like these to attack on sight, especially if their prey was unarmed. His answer came when the man in heavy plate - whom he presumed to be the leader of the band - spoke up. Even more was he surprised by the man's voice - it was soft and shrill, unlike anything he had ever heard from a bandit leader, who would usually take care to sound as brutish and gruff as possible to add to his fearsome appearance. If one were to only hear this man's voice, he would be forgiven for mistaking him for a singer or a bard.

"Do I have the honour of addressing ser Edwyn Rivers?" the masked warrior spoke, halting his steed a few paces away from them miller's family.

"Who's asking?" replied Edwyn in a steady voice, yet was simultaneously careful not to sound too hostile - he was keenly aware that while the hounds around wore leashes, the hungry looks in their eyes betrayed their eagerness to put their weapons to use, and they would take any overt act of hostility as a welcome excuse to disobey their orders.

"Oh, do forgive me, I am so terribly sorry, truly, it would appear my eagerness has blunted my good manners" sang the band's leader, emphasizing every syllable in a whiny, sing-song manner that annoyed Geralt more than the smell of rotten-teeth and dirty underwear that was coming like a flood from the other bandits, some of whom had begun dismounting their horses and handing them over to the other well-dressed rider, who took their handles and led the steeds off to the edge of the forest - for what reason, Geralt could only guess.

"I am ser Ambrose Hill, the bastard of Hornvale, the Silver Unicorn, the finest knight in all of Westerlands, here in service to the most magnificent lord Tywin of the storied House of Lannister, lord of Casterly Rock, the fairest castle to have ever been constructed, Warden of the West and Shield of Lannisport, the greatest city in Westeros, and to ser Gregor of the feared House of Clegane, the much feared and beloved Mountain that Rides, the Great Dog of lord Tywin and the ruler of Clegane Hall" sang the unicorn knight, emphasizing every single word so much Geralt suddenly felt the distinct, pressing urge to choke the arrogant little princeling out for his flowery vocabulary alone. Though ser Ambrose was not of the same sort as the rest of his men, that was for sure, there was something just as rotten about him as the others - a balmed, scented corpse was the first that came to mind. Gilded on the outside, dead on the inside.

"What would you have o' us, ser Ambrose? We've no quarrel with lord Tywin, to the best of me knowledge, or with the Mountain, and I'm sorry to say I'm hearing your name for the first time today" replied Edwyn, cautiously weighing every single word he said.

"Aaah, but 'tis precisely the reason for my visit, ser Edwyn!" cried the unicorn-knight almost ecstatically. He climbed from his saddle, handed the reins over to his lieutenant, and took off his helmet.

The face that emerged reminded Geralt of nothing so much as of a bruxa's human form - handsome, beautiful even, but only on the surface, hiding a sinister, violent intent just beneath its exterior. The princeling's eyes were of a dark blue hue, deep and aflame with life and anger - no, not anger, thought Geralt, something else, something darker. His hair was platinum gold, long and well kept, the complete opposite of the greasy flea-ridden hair Ambrose's soldiers sported, and his skin was milk-white and soft. He had a sharp jawline and small, almost comedic looking ears, which seemed to be glued to the sides of his head.

"As you may or may not be aware" proclaimed ser Ambrose in his trademark jubilant voice "a great war is coming, ser Edwyn, not entirely unlike the one you earned your fame in. The most esteemed lord Tywin has called his banners, to punish the Riverlands, home to the dreaded bitch-of-a-whore Catelyn Tully - cursed be her name - and save the life and honour of his most foully kidnapped son, Tyrion of House Lannister. The riverlords have begun massing their pitiful peasant armies in response, and the weak-willed simpleton who styles himself Hand to our good king Robert - praise be upon him - has declared my most daring of commanders, ser Gregor, an outlaw! Can you believe it?! But it matters not, for in this war, great things are at stake and yet greater feats shall be accomplished - and I mean to be the one to accomplish them."

For a moment, a hungry look, like the one his men sported, crossed ser Ambrose's youthful face. Geralt wondered how old the knight was - he couldn't have been much older than sixteen or seventeen, judging by his age, but something about him just didn't fit. Geralt knew bands like ser Ambrose led well - they were made of hard, cruel man, who had no tolerance for the weak or the effeminate, yet this band of cutthroats not only seemed to obey ser Ambrose's every word, but if they were annoyed or bored of his endless monologue, they went to great efforts not to let it show. Something wasn't right here.

Geralt heard a noise behind him, and spun around, but it was only Benjicot, who had crept out of the hatch and was making his way towards Geralt, tiptoeing across the shed towards the witcher. Geralt showed him, using a very expressive gesture, to get back in the hole, but Ben merely shook his head and leaned towards another hole in the wall besides Geralt, watching the scene unfold.

_Oh well_, thought Geralt, _at least the boy has sense enough not to speak_.

"The dimwit lord Stark sent a retinue of volunteers and poultry lords to hunt down my most courageous of commanders and bring him to King's Landing in chains. But ser Gregor is a wise man, and he laid a trap for their silly little expedition at the Mummer's Ford - a fitting resting place for them, I must admit, for as mummers they lived and as mummers they died, with their breeches wet with piss and shit and hearing the laughter of their final audience. I rode with ser Gregor in that battle myself, you see, and I was quite dissatisfied, for I couldn't find a worthy opponent - all the men I felled were straw-headed squires and men-at-arms who smelled of the stable - a most unfit quarry for one such as I, wouldn't you agree ser? Naturally, such a result has left me quite unhappy, and so the most generous ser Gregor had given me leave to vent my rage on the cowardly locals. Aaah, it's been a most entertaining couple of days." He turned to his men, and threw his arms up as though he was performing some ancient theatre skit, and cried "Do you not agree, my hunters?!"

The men howled in unanimous approval. Ser Ambrose laughed a sharp, arrogant little laugh and turned back to his (very literal) captive audience.

"And our diligence was rewarded with luck! Truly, the Seven do look out for their favoured children" he continued, apparently speaking as much to himself as to the people around him. "In the village of High Falls, which we've had the exquisite pleasure of enriching with our presence this very morning, I gave the same question as in all the other small shitholes we've visited in the last few days. Everywhere we asked "Good people, are there any great warriors in your midst? Any heroes of old or aspiring champions of the modern age, who would be willing to cross swords or spears or axes with my humble self?" And everywhere, the good folk answered "Nay, the most esteemed of knights" and so we would release them from this miserable valley of tears and move on, in the seemingly vague hope of finding a truly worthy champion."

Geralt hated talkers. He hated murderers. And he hated unicorns. It would appear as though fate had provided him with exactly the punching bag he required to vent his pent-up rage on. But he had to be careful - he was disgustingly outnumbered and these men appeared to be no slouches in combat, but more importantly, they were all focused on Edwyn and his family. If he were to attack now, he might catch two or three of them unawares, but the others would probably take the family hostage, or just kill them outright. Geralt needed a distraction, and he had no idea how to create one.

"But alas - in High Falls, the Seven smiled on their most devoted of champions! The local herbalist, a wretched and greedy man by the look of him, answered our question "Not in the village, no, m'lord, but not far from here lives Edwyn Rivers. You may have heard o' him, he fought very bravely during Robert's Rebellion, especially at the Trident." And indeed, I have! Though the story of your great feats is arguably less known in the parts I have my most humble beginnings from, I have made sure to know the names of all the great heroes of the recent past, mind you. I kindly thanked that most helpful of herbalists and relieved him from his misery, and once my men returned that pesky place to the warm embrace of mother nature, we set out immediately the way the good man pointed us. And lo and behold, we found you just in time! So, do you accept my challenge?"

Edwyn looked somewhat perplexed, as if he was not sure whether ser Ambrose had finally finished. When he realised that yes, the princeling was done with his ramblings, he replied, slowly, and cautiously.

"Ser, thirteen years ago, I would've been most honoured, why, even eager, to accept a challenge from a knight such as yourself. But I'm a different man now. I hadn't held a blade or shield in many years, and the pitchfork has taken the place of a lance in me hand. And even if I still knew how to fight, I've sworn by the Seven never to repeat the sins I've committed in the past - never to engage in violence again, unless absolutely necessary for me family's safety. T'was a good choice, and one that made me happy and gave me peace o' mind and soul. I pray you find it in yourself too one day. For that reason, I respectfully decline your challenge."

Ser Ambrose's expression changed in a heartbeat. Gone was the face of an actor on stage, reciting to a loving crowd - in its stead, now leered a likeness of an active volcano, ready to burst into flames at the slightest of impacts. The change was far too rapid for Geralt's liking, and he began to suspect why the ruffians followed ser Ambrose Hill without mouthing back to him.

"That was a most ill-mannered answer, ser Edwyn" the well-armoured man still sitting on his horse made himself heard. His voice was low and gruff, more in line with the voice of an army officer, but still sounded very youthful, approximately as young as his master's. "We have ridden a long way and overcome many difficulties to get here, ser, and to refuse lord Ambrose's request now would be most…. unwise."

Edwyn hesitated, weighing his options. Geralt could almost see his brain deciding between the various options he had, and he knew that the old man didn't like the odds of his family surviving no matter what he did or said. So, while he personally wouldn't have chosen such a response, he understood why a man like Edwyn would.

"It wasn't me intent to be impolite to me guests, of course. I'm touched by the fact you should overcome such difficulties based on me reputation alone, truly. But me decision remains firm in this matter. If there is any other way we can serve you and your fine fellows, ser Ambrose, say the word and we shall do so. But I will not fight you, your grace."

Ambrose's face went as red as if he had supped on chilli peppers, and it seemed as though he might begin screaming in his annoying, high-pitched voice at any moment. Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the anger vanished from the unicorn-knight's face, and a stroke of realisation replaced it, followed by a cunning, candied smile that did not reach his eyes.

"Very well, ser, we accept your offer of hospitality. My men are tired from the fine work they undertook this morn, as am I. The comfort of love's embrace would do all of us good, wouldn't you agree, good ser?" asked Ambrose, whilst a look of horror spread across Edwyn's face, as he realized what the princeling was asking of him.

"M...me lord? Surely you don't mean to…"

"Oh, but yes I do, I do indeed, my most hesitant of champions. A man needs three things in life to be happy - a good ale in his belly, a good sword in his hand, and a good wench in his bed. And I must say, ser Edwyn" continued ser Ambrose, making his way ever closer to the miller and his family huddled tightly around him "the girls you've sired are some of the prettiest I've ever seen in any village. Ain't that the truth, lads?!"

Another cry of agreement rose from Ambrose's lickspittles, some of whom were quite visibly salivating at the prospect of what was to come, and began inching closer and closer to the family, like vultures tightening their ring around a dying animal.

"True, they lack the grace of true highborn girls, but you know what wise men say - you take what you can get in any situation" said ser Ambrose, leaning over the girls and looking them over like an inspector would look over bushels of wheat, whilst Edwyn grew as pale as Geralt and began sweating and shaking.

Eventually, ser Ambrose seemed to have made his decision - he reached out and grabbed Melissa by the arm, pulling her in whilst the poor girl let out a desperate shriek. Geralt could see with a side glance that Ben's body went rigid, and he reached out his hand to steady the boy and prevent him from doing anything foolish.

"What is your name, oh fairest of maids?" sang ser Ambrose, the ugly look in his eye making him look more jackal than man at the moment.

"M... melissa" the girl answered, crying under her breath.

"Ssshhh, ssshhh, wipe those tears off your face, my child - you are being honoured!" cried out the knight, using his plated, gloved fingers to dramatically wipe her cheeks. Then he grabbed her by the chin and forced her to look him square in the eye, as he planted a light, wet kiss on her lips. "Out of all the men in the Seven Kingdoms, your maidenhead shall be claimed by me - the fairest knight in all of Westerlands! Or at least, I hope you're still a maid" he said with a knowing wink. "And oh, have I got such magnificent, exquisite plans with your young and vital body! Rejoice!"

Melissa began crying and shrieking, pounding weakly into ser Ambrose's armoured arm, but the knight simply laughed and continued to grip her in his iron vice.

"Lads, while I entertain this fine young lady, you can have your way with the other girls. I am sure they shall prove…"

Ser Ambrose didn't get the chance to finish his newest monologue, as his eyes suddenly widened and he let Melissa go, turning the plated arm he had thus far used to hold her down to block the incoming blade of the Dancing Lady. He caught her in the nick of time, and though the strike, which would have split his head in two just a moment later, must have hurt his arm, the knight merely laughed with joy and relief.

"Yes! I see you…"

Edwyn used his free hand to smack the princeling square in the nose. There was a distinct sound of something breaking, and ser Ambrose spun around on his heel, blood pouring from his face. The unicorn helmet he had thus far held under his other arm fell to the ground, as the knight began to spit blood, laughing all the while.

But for one of his men, this was too much to handle. Geralt realised what would happen a second before it did, and quickly grabbed Ben by the mouth, to hold back the scream that came a moment later. With a predatory howl, the marauder leapt towards Edwyn, lance in hand, and ran it straight through the miller's thigh. Edwyn let out a sound akin to a bear roar, and swung his sword at the attacker, but age and pain had slowed his reflexes, and the bandit had not trouble knocking the blade out of his hand with his own axe. Then a swift punch forced Edwyn to kneel, where he remained, struggling to stand.

Laughing, ser Ambrose began to stand. "Yes, ser, yes! I knew you still had it in you! You…" his smile vanished as he finally looked back at Edwyn and saw the tip of the lance protruding from his leg. This time, the change was instantaneous. Ambrose roared, in a voice so uncharacteristically deep for him it gave Geralt the chills, and turned to the man standing above Edwyn, his axe still drawn. "You! You fuckwit!"

The dim-witted raider realised too late that ser Ambrose's fury was aimed at him, not at the miller he had just crippled. Gasping, he tried to back away, to reach his horse, but ser Ambrose was quick, too quick for Geralt's liking. His mouth bloody and his eyes on fire, the knight reached his man in three quick steps, and smacked him with his gloved hand with such terrible force, the marauder collapsed to the ground like a sack of potatoes. The other raiders did nothing, evidently too wise to try and interfere with what was about to happen.

Ser Ambrose kicked the man in the guts, causing the outrider to roar in agony and probably tearing his internal organs. Another savage kick with his plated foot was aimed at the groin, and when his leg came back in preparation for another kick, Geralt could clearly see it was sprinkled with blood. The marauder cried in pain, but when ser Ambrose quickly stomped on his mouth, his screaming was cut immediately, replaced with muffled, barely audible gargling. Another stomp was delivered, this time to his nose, which was immediately turned to mush. The next went for his forehead, and the next for his throat. The raider's head was slowly, painfully cracking like an egg.

And all the while, ser Ambrose continued to scream, his voice still high pitched, but deeper with unbridled rage and insanity.

"You! Ploughing! Piece! Of! Shit! You! Were! Supposed! To! Leave him! For me! You worthless! Sack of! Gutter piss! You! Fucking! Moron! You!"

Edwyn moaned in pain and frustration. The women were crying. The bandits stood in stony silence. And Geralt realised what it was he saw in ser Ambrose's eye. It wasn't simple anger, no, not anger. It was madness. Pure, undiluted madness.

After a few moments, a stomach-turning, wet squelch was heard, but the mad knight did not stop immediately. It was only after the marauder's body had been thoroughly and completely mutilated that ser Ambrose turned away from the pile of meat. For some time, he said nothing, catching his breath. Then, with a brief, wild laugh, he looked at the crippled Edwyn with contempt evident on his face.

"It would appear fate has played a cruel trick on me yet again. I am sorry, ser Edwyn, for this was supposed to be an honourable affair, but now, I'll simply have to kill you on the ground, like an unworthy dog. How truly sad."

The knight grabbed his ornate helmet, and put it back on, not bothering to wipe the blood, his and the marauder's, off his face beforehand.

"But you did attempt to strike me without warning. That was a most dishonourable thing to do, good sir, a most treacherous act indeed. Had we fought our duel, I would have washed away that stain with your blood, but now… No, you must be punished for such foulness, yes, truly so I'm afraid."

He turned to the other cutthroats. "Men…" he began.

"RUN!"

The girls used this moment, when they saw all eyes were once again on ser Ambrose, to make their move. With an animalistic shriek, Lucia lunged at the knight, beating and kicking and screaming to little effect on his silvered plate, whilst her daughters used this to slip past the startled bandits, each running in a different direction.

"After them!" yelled ser Ambrose, more amused than angered, as he held Lucia down and kicked her savagely in the gut, knocking out her breath. Serra ran for the house, with two men behind her in pursuit, while Melissa's long, curly hair proved detrimental in this situation, as one of the crossbowmen managed to grab them and pull the girl back, eliciting from her a shriek of pain, whilst he threw her to the ground and began tearing at her clothes. All the while, Edwyn roared like a wounded boar, while Ambrose and his henchmen cackled like the hyenas they were. Geralt turned to Ben, whom he was still holding firmly by the arm, and told him quietly "Now is our chance. Stay. Here. Don't. Come out." He didn't check whether the boy understood. It was now or never, and he had to time this perfectly if he wished to walk out alive.

Sarra made her way toward the wood, but she was cut off by the mounted lieutenant just before she could reach it and instead ran to the barn door. She tried to open it, but Geralt held it down. She began pounding at the door, crying hysterically, but Geralt leaned in close to the hole and quietly told her "Listen carefully Sarra. Everything will be fine. Stay in front of the door. Don't move, and when I say "now", duck, immediately. Got it?"

The girl was still sobbing, but she calmed down and turned towards the two men pursuing her, so Geralt hoped she heard him and would obey. He gave one last telling look to Benjicot, then placed the edge of his sword in the palm of his left hand, resting the tip of the blade against the door in the appropriate height. He would have to be careful with the sword - one blow against strong resistance, and Geralt was sure it would shatter.

Ambrose threw the sobbing Lucia down, whilst two of his men dragged the screaming, kicking Serra out of the house. The crossbowman who had caught Melissa had now completely torn off her clothes, and began untying his belt, whilst the girl screamed hysterically. The two men approaching Sarra both had helmets, one was armoured with a mail shirt, the other only wore a stinking gambeson. One gripped a sword and shield, the other still held his cavalry lance. Both of them were grinning like ghouls over a fresh corpse. Geralt prepared himself.

"Let's have some fun, boys!" cried the unicorn knight triumphantly.

"Now!" screamed the witcher, and at the same time as Sarra ducked, he kicked open the door and stabbed with the Viroledan blade, praying to all the gods he had heard of that it wouldn't break on impact.

The gods were good this time. Not only did the blade not break, it pierced right through the swordsman's throat, stopping only when it tickled his spine. The man's eyes nearly fell out of his sockets with surprise, and as Geralt retracted the blade, he collapsed, coughing blood and bile out of his mouth all the while, his legs kicking as his body refused to accept it would soon be dead.

The witcher wasted no time. No longer were his muscles stiff and cramped - he was burning, his whole body almost ecstatic at the prospect of what was about to go down. With a lightning-fast whirl, he slashed at the spearman's face, and his eyes, a moment before wide open with terror and surprise, disappeared in a puff of red mist, replaced with a deep, bloody cut, from which spilled the spearman's blood and brains in a disgusting slimy goo.

Geralt turned towards the other men. _That's two down_._ Eight to go_. He wasted no time and began rapidly shortening the distance between him and the nearest marauder, whose expression of sheer terror gave him more joy than he cared to admit. Few things, he knew, were as terrifying to behold as a skilled witcher in melee.

"On him, imbeciles! Get him! Kill him!" ser Ambrose cried, making his way towards his horse. But most of his men seemed to remain paralysed. Except for Ambrose's lieutenant. The rider was the first to shake off the terror he felt at the sight of new opponent, and charged at Geralt, lance in his hand.

Geralt was expecting as much. Before the rider could even get close enough to stab at him with his weapon, Geralt folded his fingers into the Aard sign, and aimed them at the charging raider. It was as though the rider had been hit by the hand of an invisible giant. Falling clear off his saddle, he hit the ground hard, gasping and coughing, trying to rise to his feet. He never got the chance.

With a few quick steps, Geralt was upon him. As the fallen man saw the pale death raising its sword above him, he yelled out a desperate shriek, and extended his mailed fist in an attempt and shield his head, while trying to rise with the help of his other hand. Too late. With a single swift blow, Geralt took the rider's hand, his arm, and his head. The steel helmet was catapulted into the air in a fountain of blood, and the headless body collapsed back into the dust.

_Seven._

"Noooo! Hagen!" he heard the unicorn-knight cry, grief mixing with anger in his tone. "I'll kill you for that, you hear me?! I'll kill you!" squealed ser Ambrose, and charged his destrier at Geralt.

Yet the witcher was unable to pull off the same trick twice in a row, his strength still too depleted to cast another sign. Fortunately for him, in his blind anger, ser Ambrose forgot to pick up his lance, and was now barrelling down at him with only his sword in hand. Geralt could simply dodge the psychopath, get out of his way, but he knew that cutting off the head of the snake might send the rest of the raiders to flee.

He steadied himself, and planned to execute a risky, daring trick, by grabbing Ambrose's sword as he swung it and pulling him off his horse, finishing the knight on the ground. Ser Ambrose charged him, screaming like the madman he was, the unicorn horn on his helmet almost glowing in the bright sunlight of early morning. Geralt prepared himself. He couldn't fail now.

He understood too late he had underestimated the mad knight. When ser Ambrose was close enough for Geralt to make his move, the witcher had to instead hastily deflect ser Ambrose's blade, as the knight proved to be far quicker and deadlier with the sword than Geralt would have ever expected.

Ser Ambrose slashed. Geralt tried to block. And upon contact, the viroledan blade, a reported masterpiece from the great nilfgaardian empire, allegedly one of the finest swords in the world, proved itself to be fake, and shattered into a thousand pieces.

Geralt would most likely have been done for in that moment, had the shattering of his sword not taken ser Ambrose aback. Instead of stopping his horse and pressing his advantage, he galloped past Geralt, only turning by the entrance to the barn. Realising what had just happened, he let out a cackling, maniacal laugh, and made ready to charge his prey yet again.

He was thrown of his horse almost as suddenly as his companion, though not by the same ethereal force, but rather by an old pitchfork, that stabbed at him from below and hit him square in the unicorn helmet. The pitchfork was gripped by Benjicot, and the blow he'd delivered was savage enough to send the robber knight tumbling from his saddle headfirst into the dirt. Ser Ambrose rolled on the ground, confused and trying to get back up, but Ben, with a savage cry, whacked him over the helmet yet again, and continued to stab at him with little real effect, but vehemently enough so as to keep the knight writhing in the filth, trying to find an opening amid the silvered plates of the knight's armour.

Geralt had no time to help the boy finish the bandit leader, and so he simply hoped that Ben would keep him busy long enough. The six remaining marauders wasted no time - while they were clearly not of the smartest ilk, they were not dull when it came to battle. The shattering of Geralt's sword had evidently encouraged them, giving them the slightest of hopes that together they may yet slay their attacker. Four of them, two still holding their lances, two armed with their backup weapons, formed a shield wall, whilst the two crossbowmen tried to get into a position where they had a clear line of sight. Geralt threw his now useless "sword" to the ground, pulled out his hunting knife and dagger, holding each in one hand, and prepared to try out another risky manoeuvre.

If he'd still had his sword, he wouldn't have any doubts about the success of the plan he had to devise at a moment's notice. With only the much smaller hunting knife in his hand, he had some doubts whether it would suffice. But he had to take the shot. Quite literally so, in fact.

The first crossbow bolt he dodged with ease, as if it was merely an annoyance. The man who had loosed it looked as though Geralt had just pissed into his morning porridge, the shock and disbelief written plain across his features. The shield wall faltered, but quickly resumed its advance, as the men gave themselves courage by yelling and screaming at their target, advancing in sync one step at a time. The other crossbowman raised his own weapon, quickly aimed and loosed.

_Now or never_, thought Geralt.

He swung his knife like he would a sword, and though he felt the vibrations from the impact reverberate painfully all the way up in his arm, he successfully deflected the bolt - right at the enemy swordsman before him.

The man was as surprised as anyone would be in such a moment, but his reflexes got the better of him, and he instinctively raised his shield. The bolt hit it a moment later, lodging itself well and truly right into the spot where one of the leaping hounds had been painted. Geralt didn't waste a second admiring his feat.

The moment the swordsman lowered his shield, he saw that Geralt, mid-leap, was already upon him. And there was no time for him to raise his shield again.

The witcher's dagger lodged itself in the man's brain from the side, slipping past his mail coif, entering through the ear and passing into the skull with little resistance all the way up to the hilt. The man, his eyes wide open in the horror he felt just before he died, landed flat on his back, with Geralt crouched on his chest. The witcher acted with blinding speed, pulling out his dagger with his right hand, whilst simultaneously using the knife in his left hand to slash at the legs of the spearman to his left, who, taken aback by what had just occurred next to him, failed to turn his shield in time. The fact he wore nothing but dirty hoes on his legs finally caught up with him, as Geralt cut through his knee and thigh with virtually no effort. The man screamed and tumbled to the ground, bleeding profusely.

_Four_.

He barely avoided the spear which the man to his right thrust at his back, leaping forward in the nick of time and rolling under the ugly, spiked mace the other marauder swung at his head. He knew that by this time, the crossbowmen would have reloaded, and fortunately for him, he once again had the strength to cast a sign.

He looked at the two men in the background. The one standing on the stairs next to the weeping Melissa had already reloaded, the other was still struggling, but not far behind. Geralt folded his fingers into Axii, struggling not to let go of his dagger in the process, and when he sensed the man's mind was his to do with as he wished, he quickly jerked his head towards the other crossbowman. He had to only hope it would work, since the remaining spearman was charging at him yet again, weapons at the ready, an insane expression of fear and excitement on his face.

This time, Geralt not only avoided the spear thrust at his gut, he twisted around it and gripped the arm holding the weapon in an iron vice. He then wrapped his own arm around it, and pulled, quick and hard. A disgusting crack became audible for a few seconds. The man roared in agony, fear mixing with pain and anger in that terrible scream. It was only silenced when the spiked mace, formerly aiming at Geralt's neck, found the spearman's face instead, turning it into a pile of mauled red meat in a heartbeat.

_Three_.

The remaining marauder had no time to dwell too long on this action. Geralt, letting go of the spearman's now limp body, crouched and, planting his hands firmly on the ground, kicked the man's feet from under him, making him fall head first to the dirt. As he did so, Geralt twisted again, landing safely on his feet, still crouched, and let the man fall squarely on the knife he had placed where he expected the soldier's face to end up. Crying out in a shriek of terror that cut even Geralt himself to the bone, the mace man landed, the hunting knife knocking out his lower teeth, splitting his tongue neatly in two, and piercing through the back of his neck. Just to make sure he was dead, Geralt stabbed him with the dagger as well, straight through the nape. The man's feet twitched for one last time, then all movement ceased.

_Two_.

"Ogden where are you aiming that…" Geralt heard someone ask, followed by a short thump and a wet gargle, as something heavy tumbled to the ground.

_One_.

Geralt, suddenly feeling even more tired than yesterday, if that was at all possible, forced himself to stand up, pulling his blades from the dead man's head. The spearman he had cut across the leg was still alive, trying desperately to get back up, but his damaged thigh kept betraying him, and he was rolling on the ground, only being able to kneel on his healthy limb, weeping and sniffling and screaming. It was actually quite a pathetic sight, and a man in a better mood might have simply left the wretch to bleed out. But Geralt was not in a better mood.

"Please, don't… mercy… don't… don't come close… don't… monster!" the man squealed, rising one final time, looking up at the pale reaper towering above him, with tears on his cheeks and terror in his eyes.

"Wrong" the monster replied, calmly and coldly. "I am worse. I kill monsters."

With those words, he raised his dagger, and stabbed the kneeling man in the neck. And then again, in the cheek, and then again, in the beard from below, and again, and again, and again, until the raider's face and throat resembled nothing as much as a bloody sieve. Blood sprayed, high and intense. Only after he was covered with it from head to toe did Geralt grant mercy to the gibbering wretch by stabbing him in the eye, twisting the dagger well and deep into the brain.

He pulled it out at the same moment the crossbowman he had hypnotised managed to come back to. When he saw Geralt, covered as he was in blood and standing amidst the corpses, he shrieked like a little girl, then aimed his crossbow and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened, and the man had only a split second to spot the bolt he remembered loading into his weapon sticking out of his comrade's neck, before Geralt cut the distance between them and, bringing his hunting knife's massive pommel to bear, knocked the unfortunate idiot out cold. But even as the marauder went tumbling to the ground, a painful cry caught Geralt's attention.

Ser Ambrose had finally managed to get the upper hand on Benjicot. When the boy eventually strayed too close, the knight kicked him in the leg, causing Ben to fall to the dirt and only a stroke of luck prevented him from impaling himself on his own pitchfork. Ser Ambrose stood, sword in hand, and, while still mightily dazed and confused from the many hits to the helmet he had undoubtedly taken from the youngster, prepared to dispense with the whelp who had so offended him. Then, he looked around, and realised that he could either satisfy his thirst for revenge and face the monstrous killer alone, or execute a tactical retreat and come back later for a more honourable duel. Wisely, he chose the latter, in a heartbeat as well.

When Geralt turned from his last opponent, he saw the rogue knight already climbing into the saddle of one of the horses - his own steed had been spooked and fled when Ben knocked its master off it. The witcher knew that even with his speed, he had no chance of catching up with the knight in time, and so, instead, he darted towards the dead crossbowman. He picked up his weapon, but noticed far too late that the bolt had fallen out when the crossbow hit the ground, and while he searched for it, ser Ambrose drove his mount out of the courtyard and back from whence he came, disappearing amidst the trees behind a curve just as Geralt managed to finally reload.

"Fuck" was the only thing that came to the witcher's mind.

Ben was lying on the ground, slightly dazed but feeling very much alive. He barely registered how quiet things had become all of sudden - no more steel ringing on steel, no men yelling their curses and no sound of his sisters crying. That was good. That was important. He hated hearing his sisters cry.

A figure came into his view, a man with pale white hair and viper eyes, now covered in blood from head to toe. He'd been fascinated by that figure since he found him on the battlefield of Mummer's Ford. Geralt, that was his name, yes. He claimed he wasn't supposed to fight men, Ben remembered, and now the lad understood why. Such strength, such speed, such brutality - it would be unfit for a man such as Geralt to waste those skills on common crooks. Still, Ben was most glad he did, at least this time.

"A pitchfork" noted Geralt, outstretching his hand to Ben, "a dangerous weapon, to be sure. Not very effective against armour, but you handled it as well as anyone could hope in your situation."

Ben took the offered hand and stood up. He almost collapsed back to the ground immediately, shaking on unsteady feet that stubbornly refused to support his weight. Then he leaned forward and threw up what little food there still was in his stomach. He wretched for a good while later still, and the taste of bile filled his mouth when the scent of blood entered his nose. He could scantily look at what remained of the Mountain's men, and felt ashamed to show his weakness so openly in front of others.

"Don't worry, boy" Geralt told him, as if reading his mind. "There's no shame in your reaction, it's only natural. No man should ever bear witness to something like this, and you held up better than most boys your age would. Come, let's find your family." Ben and Geralt walked into the barn, where Ben had told the terrified Sarra to hide while he went out. They found her, still shaking, in the open trapdoor in the barn.

"Sarra?" called out Ben. "Are you alright?"

"I think so" the girl called back, evidently still terrified, but at least no longer weeping. "Where's Serra? Where are ma' and da'? Are the bad men gone?"

"They're gone, Sarra, but just in case, stay in the barn" called Geralt. "But if you could, throw me the satchel you have down there by your feet - yes, that's the one, I might be needing it in a short while."

"Do you really think there might be more o' 'em around?" asked Ben, shivering at the prospect of facing more men like that in a single day. Suddenly, his dreams of travelling the world and fighting evil seemed a whole lot less exciting than a few hours ago.

"Unlikely" replied Geralt, walking out of the barn with his bag in hand. "Bands like this - they don't like to share. They'll prefer to remain as small as possible to stand a chance in a skirmish. And judging by what that horned bastard said, he's unlikely to find another band anytime soon. But I didn't want her to see this slaughter. It's not something a child should see. And take the rope your father used to bind me, Ben - we'll have need of it."

Grabbing the rope, Geralt and Ben made their way across the blood-soaked courtyard, to the place where Geralt had knocked the last surviving marauder unconscious. Whilst Geralt knelt next to the man and began binding his limbs together, Ben began looking for Melissa. He found her cowering next to the mill, still weeping, though now a lot quieter than before, her clothes a tattered, ruined mess and a large chunk of her beautiful, curly hair missing. She screamed when she saw him, but calmed down moments later, allowing Ben to approach her and kneel down beside her.

"Ssshhh, sis, 'tis alright now, they're dead, every one o' 'em, they won't hurt you no more…"

"N...no…" she cried, shaking and sobbing like he had never seen her do before. "He did… he almost… he wanted to…"

"But he didn't" said Geralt, walking toward the siblings. When Melissa saw him, she screamed, drenched in blood as he was, until she realised who he was, and began crying again, though this time, tears of relief mixed with those of grief and pain.

Geralt knelt beside her. "It's alright now. They won't hurt you anymore but I need to know where your parents went."

Only then did Ben realise that his parents were nowhere to be seen. When the fight began, his mother and father both lay injured in the courtyard, but after that, no one seemed to recall what happened to them. At first, Ben feared the worst, but their bodies weren't anywhere amidst the corpses. Neither did anyone see Serra, who was dragged out of the house by one of the soldiers, moments before Geralt began his killing spree. Geralt turned to Ben.

"Take her inside. Give her something to wear. She'll need your help now Ben. You have to be strong for both of you."

Ben nodded, and helped Melissa stand. She tried to cover herself up at first, but soon found it was of no use, so ravaged was her clothing. Yet as they were about to leave, she turned to the pale-haired swordsman, whom Ben clearly saw she wasn't fond of from them moment he was brought to their home, and whispered "Thank you… thank you, ser…"

Geralt said nothing at first, standing in place as though the girl had slapped him, and then nodded, quickly and hesitantly, like he wasn't sure he'd heard her correctly and wanted to move on. Still sobbing, Melissa and Ben made their way to the house, leaving Geralt behind to ponder what had just happened.

_Thank you_.

Geralt's mind immediately raced back to the dream he'd had that night, and further still, to the event that spawned it. Was it a coincidence? A twist of fate? He wasn't sure, and he didn't wish to dwell on it now that there were more important things to attend to.

He walked over to the place where he had last seen Edwyn and Lucia lying on the ground. There was blood all over the dirt and sand after the fight, yet he still managed to make out a small, barely visible trail of crimson droplets that led from the battleground and into the watermill. Geralt followed it, weary of what he might find inside.

When he was about to enter the door, instinct commanded him to make his presence known before he might open it. Therefore, he stood aside, just in case, and called as loudly as he could.

"The bandits are dead! It's me, Geralt! I'm coming in. Please, try not to stab me!"

He opened the door and walked in. He instantly knew he'd made the correct decision, since besides the door stood Lucia, gripping the Dancing Lady in her hands. She looked weak and pale, her usually rosy cheeks devoid of all colour, but she could stand and she held the sword with enough strength that Geralt considered his course of action a wise one.

Behind Lucia, Edwyn lay on the ground, the broken lance still sticking out of his thigh, breathing heavily and discoloured much like his wife, though in his wheezing and grunting, pain was far more evident. In his hands, he was holding Serra - how the girl had managed to slip past the carnage and mayhem to re-join her parents, Geralt could only guess.

"Thank you" was the first thing Edwyn said, pushing the words through his teeth with clearly monumental levels of effort.

"I… I've never seen anything like it…" "You can thank me after I've helped you" said Geralt, pulling a potion from his satchel. "Let me see that wound."

"My children?" asked Lucia weakly, returning to her husband. She rested the sword on the ground beside him and took Serra, who was still wide-eyed and completely silent, from Edwyn's hands.

"All alive and unharmed… at least physically. Sarra is in the barn, waiting for things to calm down. Melissa will require new clothing, and there is a distinct possibility her trauma may grow into something more serious one day. Keep an eye on her, at least for the following few months. And Ben was very brave - you could even say he saved my life. Like father like son, I suppose" remarked the witcher, turning his head toward Edwyn. The miller smiled, weakly, but with palpable pride.

"It would appear I owe you an explanation."

"I've already put two and two together myself" said Geralt "though some additional details would be welcome. But that's a topic for later. Now we need to get you fixed up."

He turned to Lucia "You first, however. How bad was it? That kick? Any contractions? Will the child survive?"

Lucia seemed somewhat surprised the witcher had managed to deduce as much, but answered "At first, I thought I had lost our little boy for sure. The pain… it was something like I've not experienced in a while. But he still has a long way ahead of him - it's only been about two months, so I pray that nothing will come of that trauma."

Geralt nodded "You should be fine, then. Women in early stages of pregnancy are a lot more capable of withstanding physical trauma than in the later stages. Still, try not to strain yourself too much in the following weeks, just to make sure."

He turned his attention back to Edwyn, kneeling beside him and observing the wound. "You are fortunate - the lance missed the bone, so you will walk again, though it's possible it did get scratched. I will pull out the tip, but then I'll require something to wrap the leg into, to stop the bleeding. Lucia, please, go home and bring any cloth you think you can spare - we'll need a lot of it. And then there's this" he said, pointing to the luminescent fluid in the small glass vial in his hand.

"It's called the Full Moon. It's not a potion that's generally administered to non-altered patients, but it is the best I've with me. Applying a small dose to the injured area should theoretically be safe and help the wound close far faster, so you'll be back on your feet a lot sooner, but it will hurt like a bitch and you'll probably have a nasty case of diarrhoea and stomach cramps for at least a couple of days. Question is - are you willing to take it?"

"Yes" replied Edwyn, not a shadow of hesitation in his voice. "Lucia, Serra, please, go fetch what master Geralt has asked for. I won't be going anywhere." When the two left, Edwyn turned back to Geralt and said "Forgive me, ser Geralt, I…"

"Spare me the sers. You were doing what you thought was right for your family. There's no shame in that. I wouldn't trust a man like me if I didn't know him. And I was quite disrespectful to you, but that's just in my nature - I'm far older than you'd think, and have grown prickly over the years" said Geralt, somewhat surprised by his own honesty. "Still, however, your pacifism could have gotten you all killed. And I know you are not dumb - Ben told me you've raised all your children to be prepared for the real world. So, what's up with the ban on fighting?"

"That, I fear, I don't have time to explain right now" remarked Edwyn, snapping his teeth to hold back a growl of pain as Geralt began pulling the lance from his leg. "But if the Seven are kind, I'll be able to tell you on the way to the Stoney Sept."

"I thought you didn't want me to go the Stoney Sept with you" remarked Geralt.

"I've reconsidered, and I think you can guess the reason why" said the old miller, baring his bloodied teeth and howling in pain as the lance was pulled from his thigh completely.

"There is one more thing that we need to attend before, however" Geralt began.

The raider was tied up in the same way Geralt had been a couple of hours before, lying on the same straw pallet Geralt found himself lying on the previous morning. And this time, the witcher himself was the sitting next to the man - a decidedly less pleasing companion than Melissa had been to him. How fate loves its cruel little ironies.

Edwyn had insisted on being present as well, though Geralt had initially protested, claiming because of the mighty powerful fit of vomiting and coughing the man went through after consuming the Full Moon, it would be best for the old miller to lay down and rest awhile. But Edwyn was persistent. "You won't understand half o' what he'll tell you, even if he talks. I'll know what it'll mean instantly, and can plan our next move accordingly. You need a translator, so to speak."

Eventually, Geralt was forced to concede that Edwyn was correct. So he helped the man limp over to the barn, and seated him on the very same bucket Edwyn had seated himself on the previous day.

Ben and Melissa also made their attempts to participate in the interrogation, but on this matter, Geralt and Edwyn were in agreement. "Your mother needs you far more than we do right now" said Geralt. "Besides, interrogation is a nasty business, especially when dealing with men like this. You've no way to help us and aplenty o' ways to unintentionally sabotage us. Help your ma' fill the cart, make sure you take all you need and can carry, since I doubt you'll ever see it again otherwise" added Edwyn.

Ben argued with the two men for a while, but eventually saw his efforts were of no use and gave up. Melissa, surprisingly enough, was the more persistent of the two. _Or_, thought Geralt, _rather unsurprisingly, since the man I'm about to interrogate did try to rape her_. He should have chosen to bewitch the other crossbowman instead, but alas, what was done couldn't be undone.

"I need to see him" insisted the girl. "To look him in the eye one last time and… to ask him…"

"He won't tell you" said Geralt, firmly.

"But…"

"Trust me. He won't. I doubt he knows himself why he does the things he does. It won't bring you relief. It will only drive you ever deeper into sadness. Trust me, Melissa. I know" the witcher spoke to her, gently, but resolutely.

Eventually, Melissa accepted as well, and so it was only Geralt and Edwyn who sat in the barn, waiting for the marauder to regain his senses. Geralt stripped him of his armour, boots, and clothes, leaving him only in his filthy, smelly underwear. It wasn't a pretty sight, but Geralt knew from experience just how much discomfort it could bring to a man, finding himself with nothing but his shirt on.

"You'll remain silent" Geralt told Edwyn when he laid the tied-up bandit on the pallet. "I'll do the talking. No offense, but in this state, I don't think you're capable of frightening a rabbit, no matter how much you might hate him. I, on the other hand, terrify even the people I like." Edwyn agreed with that, though Geralt could see it wasn't much to his liking. And so, they waited a short while, listening to Sofia commanding her children and hearing Ben and Melissa carrying heavy boxes over to the mule cart.

Geralt had managed to round up most of the marauder's horses, including the fine destrier that ser Ambrose used to ride. He took off the ridiculous saddle-cloth the horse had been covered in, and was truly amazed by how graceful and well-bred the animal was - well-built and stout, with beautiful white fur and of an even temper. And he saw very clearly, he wasn't the only one who had taken a liking to it. Benjicot's eyes positively shone with delight at the site of the beast, and the twins, who, while still a lot quieter than before, had become enthralled with petting the stallion. The two mules the family owned were also accounted for, and as Geralt and Edwyn were patiently waiting for their new guest to come to, Lucia already put her organisational talent to good use, helping to coordinate the loading of the wagon the two animals were attached to in short order. Though Geralt doubted ser Ambrose would return with reinforcements any time soon, the possibility was still present, and luck was ever a fickle mistress.

Finally, the bandit started to wake. As he began slowly opening his sweaty, sticky eyelids, the witcher made sure the first thing his prisoner saw would be his face. He was not wrong about the effect that would have on the man's already shaky morale.

The man began to scream. There was nothing but pure terror in that sound, and while Geralt quickly muffled his voice by placing a hand over the man's mouth, so as to not startle the family outside, he made no effort to terrify the man any less. When he was finally done with his yelling, Geralt gave him his first question. He made to sure to lower his already somewhat throaty, raspy voice even more, to sound as menacing and threatening as he possibly could.

"How did it feel?" asked Geralt, removing his palm so that the raider could speak.

Yet the man initially said nothing, only gaping at his tormentor in wordless terror.

"I mean, what did it feel like when you were in my power? Your mind clouded, - more than usual, that is - your hands not yours anymore, your feet moving of their own free will? Did you like that feeling?"

"Nnn...nnn...nooo" the man whimpered, pathetically and weakly. Gone was the smug, predatory persona he had displayed when he had the upper hand over a defenceless family. Here, face to face with a monster from the legends of old, he was once again a child, hiding from the Others behind his mother's skirt.

"I can make you feel like that again, if I suspect you're lying. Are you going to lie to me?"

"No! Please, no! Make it stop, make it stop, make it…"

"Quiet!" roared the witcher, his voice more a snarl than a shout. The man quieted down immediately, and continued to gawk at Geralt as though he truly was more a hungry lion than a human warrior.

"Let's you and I make a deal. I won't cast my curse on you again, and you answer all the questions that I ask truthfully. You try to lie - I'll know. And you don't want me to catch you lying…."

"No, please, I will!"

"I said quiet! You raise your voice again, I'll make a hole in your tongue so wide it'll look like your third ear!"

The man quieted down, still wide eyed, as Geralt began questioning him in earnest.

"Tell me your name."

"O...oo...Ogden."

"Not pleased to meet you, Ogden. So, Ogden, whom do you serve?"

"Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain that Ri...rides…"

"And this Mountain, does he have a master?"

"Yes, ser, he does, lord Tywin Lannister."

Geralt looked to Edwyn for confirmation. The miller nodded and explained.

"The Lannisters are one o' 'em great houses of Westeros - they used to rule their own kingdoms, now they serve as Wardens to the Iron Throne and the one true King. The Lannisters are a clever, treacherous lot, and lord Tywin's the worst o' 'em, a ruthless killer and murderer who's driven entire houses into extinction. They rule the Westerlands, lands - as the name suggests - to the west of 'ere. Truth be told, we're not that far from the border."

"Very well then, Ogden. Is lord Tywin planning a large war?" asked Geralt. He cared little for the motivations and natures of lords and nobility of any sort - noblemen always found a reason to go for each other's throats from time to time. What concerned Geralt was the scale of the war they usually planned.

"Yes, ser, though I don't know much, truly. Ser Gregor told us to burn the whole o' Riverlands to the ground, though he didn't say why and we never asked. He said by the time lord Tywin passes through with his main army, he wants to see only ash and smoke before 'im, and that we were free to do with the smallfolk as we pleased so long as we helped gather supplies."

"So, lord Tywin sent you out as his vanguard, correct? How many men does he have?"

"I… I…" Ogden stuttered. The shock of Geralt's appearance was waning somewhat, but the witcher made sure to replace it with a steady, omnipresent fear, using his voice, his body language, and especially direct eye contact. All this served to keep Ogden uncomfortable and guessing, but it also meant that it would keep him blabbering if Geralt did not continuously put him in line.

"Speak up, man!" he raised his voice, just a little, but enough.

"I don't know, ser, I really, really don't! No one told me, but his army's huge, the largest I've ever seen. Lord Tywin's called his banners, all o' 'em, 'cept for the ones already with ser Jaime Lannister to the north."

"So, there's a second army as well?" asked Geralt. That was not good news.

"Yes ser, marching straight for Riverrun, eastward. The forces o' Vance, Piper and other border lords have all gone north, to face ser Jaime's cavalry, so the Mountain told us Piper lands would be easy pickings."

Geralt looked at Edwyn, and the miller shook his head in disappointment.

"Then the borderland lords have been negated. Lord Tully won't be coming to our help anytime soon. And the Lannisters have free entrance into the Riverlands."

"So, Ogden, where are these armies headed? You said this Jaime is riding for Riverrun with his part - where is lord Tywin headed?"

"I don't know ser, I really don't. I told you, I was in the van, they never tell us anything, they just expect us to ride with ploughing mercenaries like Vargo Hoat or Symond Torf and never ask any questions."

"Don't lie to me, Ogden, or…."

"I ain't lying, I swear 'tis the truth of the matter! Ser Gregor just told us to raid and pillage wherever we liked, and that we was to meet him in a week by Pinkmaiden."

"That's to the north, the seat o' house Piper. So, Tywin's marching to link up with his wretch-o'-a-son" remarked Edwyn, spitting to the ground at the mere thought of this Jaime Lannister.

"Probably ser, I don't know. The Mountain told us we'd take the castle, said there'd be gold and wine and wenches aplenty once we did, not the horse piss we've had to drink on the…"

"I couldn't care less, Ogden. What I care about is the following - who was it with you today - the knight in silver plate? The unicorn-looking fellow?"

The raider's expression grew even more fearful, though it seemed unlikely - his answer was no more than a whisper.

"You watch out for that one, ser - he might look like a sword-swallowing pansy, but I've never seen no one so quick with the blade, and only the Mountain himself's more furious in battle. Aye, if he's escaped from you, you'll never be safe, aye, you'll die a terrible death, a terrible, horrible…"

"I'll be sure to try and outdo him when I deal with you Ogden. So, unless you want me to show you how a really terrible death looks like, you'll stop babbling and tell me who he is."

"That was" whispered Ogden, not looking entirely sane at the moment "ser Ambrose Hill, the bastard of Brax. He's been with the Mountain's men only for a short while, the lad's say it was meant to serve as punishment for some depravity or something he'd done. Some said his family hoped the chief would kill him, cause ser Gregor's well known for hating all sorts of weaklings and pansies - just ask his own brother. But ser Ambrose took a liking to our band, and the Mountain, surprisingly, took a liking to him as well - after he beat one of ser Gregor's lieutenants senseless with a beer mug, and dug another man's eye and heart out with a wooden spoon. He may look fancy, but he's more dangerous than most others in the band, and is certainly twice as mad and unpredictable. But he's real generous with the loot, gives the men serving him almost everything they take, and has only one real goal, to become a legend or some other such hogwash, so the Mountain knows he can rely on him to do the dirty work. First thing he did when we sacked Wendish town was round up all the able-bodied men we'd captured and when none of them wished to duel him, he'd begin cutting off their manhoods one at a time, hoping one of 'em would finally agree to the fight. None did. I've never seen so many cut-off …."

"A charming man then, I'm sure. But tell me, Ogden, are there any plans to move on the Stoney Sept?"

"Ser Gregor has none, far as I know, but plans can change. And ser Ambrose 'll be hot on your heels, even if he had to return alone. He's a spiteful one, that man."

"You best hope my plans don't change, because it seems to me, you're…"

"I ain't lying, ser, I swear by the Mother's mercy!"

"A dog's vows are worthless. I need information. Has lord Tywin sent any force to move against the Stoney Sept?"

"I don't know! He's got men to spare, that one, plenty o' eager swords in his army, aye. He could send someone, one of his mercenaries or lesser lords, but I don't know nothin 'bout that, ser, I swear! You've gotta believe me!"

"I don't "have" to do a thing" the witcher said coldly, leaving the unfortunate Ogden to fry in his own juices for a little while. The he stood up, said "We're done here" and offered his hand to Edwyn, who, after some hesitation, accepted the proffered help and rose to his feet, hissing with pain and strain.

"Ey?! What 'bout me?!" cried Ogden, beginning to role and squirm on the pallet. "I've told you all I know, I did! I was helpful, right?! I didn't hurt no one here, did I?! Please ser, set me free! Please, I beg you, have mercy!"

Geralt paid him no mind as he assisted Edwyn limp over to the porch before his house, helping the miller sit down and then pacing back and forth, nervously weighing his options.

Edwyn was the first to summarise "So, from what he tells us, no help will come. The Lannisters and their lackeys have free reign to loot and raid the whole surrounding area at their leisure, and it seems as though this won't be no ordinary skirmish, but a full-fledged invasion. That means more outrides, more like him" he nodded to the barn "are sure to already be swarming the land. But we have a chance, if we move fast, for it seems lord Tywin wishes to join his son in the northern regions, to meet lord Hoster and his host will all his might. That gives us an opportunity to slip by them, if we use the path through the woods to the east o' here. 'Tis old and overgrown in places, but 'tis also known to few and used by fewer, and it links to the major roads right next to the Stoney Sept. Once we make it to the city, we'll be safe from most all outrider bands, no matter their size."

"And if lord Tywin decides to change his course of action? Or if this lord Hoster fails to defeat him? What'll you do then?" asked Geralt, challenging Edwyn's new-born hopes of escape.

"We won't stay in Stoney Sept for long if it comes to that. I've friends in the Reach, further south - 'tis a peaceful land, and its lords are mighty, though greedy - the Lannisters won't dare stray that far. But one step at a time, Geralt, one step at a time. Which makes me ask - what'll we do with him?"

"I say we hang him - make him a warning to those whom might wish to follow us" said Geralt, without hesitation or second thoughts.

"That is not our choice to make. Only the lord can…"

"From what he says, your lord Piper is now most likely worm-food, or will be soon and I somewhat doubt a new lord will be in a rush to take his place."

Edwyn sighed, conceding the point. "True, true. But to kill a prisoner in cold blood - 'tis wrong Geralt, too wrong. I have sworn to never walk paths of evil again in me life - I'd like to keep that vow."

"Well, we can't take him with us and we can't let him go, and I don't really see a third…"

"Trial by combat" said Edwyn bluntly.

"Come again?"

"A trial by combat. An age old Andal tradition - when two men quarrelled and neither wished to stand before a judge, they would use their skill at arms to settle their dispute. We'll give him a chance to prove his innocence before the gods in a trial by combat - he'll fight to win his freedom."

"If that man is innocent, then I'm still a virgin" remarked Geralt, his voice once again characteristically thick with sarcasm. "And if you send Ogden against me, we both know the result. A quick drop and a sudden stop would be swifter, and a far more fitting end for him."

"I never said you'd be the one to fight him" said Edwyn.

"Get that thought out of your skull, now" said Geralt, growing wary once again. "You can barely stand, and he might be a common thug, but he's still a cutthroat, and in a far better shape than you."

"I know what I'm doing. Someone needs to bring him to justice - common murder would make us no better than him. I… I have to defend…"

"Melissa's honour is intact, you know that full well. And even if it wasn't, swinging from a tree will be a befitting end for such crime. We could geld him as well, but I doubt we'd have the time."

"No, Geralt, just no. It has to be done with honour. I have to…"

"Aaaargh!"

The scream came from the barn. Geralt darted towards the building in an instant, whilst Edwyn tried hurriedly to stand and follow him, cursing and swearing extremely profoundly all along the way. Geralt kicked in the wooden door moments after the scream had died off, dagger in hand poised to strike.

Melissa was leaning against the wall, like she had when he'd first met her. She was pale, and a look of horror was written plainly across her fair features, as she gazed at the tied-up man before her, and was using her hands to cover her mouth, evidently holding back a scream.

Ogden was spitting blood, his tied-up hands and feet twitching and convulsing. He tried to say something, his eyes so large they seemed like to burst at any moment, and as he lay on his side, blood came pouring from four small holes in his chest. The red fluid had already stained the straw on the pallet, and was dripping down on the bloody pitchfork laying besides the makeshift bed. Ogden's eyes spoke a silent plea for help, but Geralt, even if he'd cared to provide any, saw there was no helping the outrider. One of the iron teeth of the pitchfork had pierced straight through his heart.

When Edwyn made his way to the barn, he immediately understood what had happened. He turned to Melissa. "Why?" he asked, confusion mixing with despair in his voice.

"I… I had to know. Why he would do that. He… he told me… he said… he said I was…" the girl began to sob, only now realizing fully what she had just done, quietly breaking down and bursting into tears yet again.

"Well, it doesn't matter now. Turn away, girl. Edwyn, take her" said Geralt, walking towards the dying bandit as Edwyn took Melissa in her arms and led her out of the room.

"This is more than you deserve" Geralt told the rasping, wheezing Ogden, plunging his dagger deep into his nape and twisting, swiftly and brutally. The wheezing ceased.

In a few hours, the family was ready to ride out. Geralt and Ben had taken what remained of the bandits aside, so that they could gather the horses and load the cart with at least the resemblance of peace, and took everything of value they had. Though Edwyn protested vehemently at robbing the dead, he stopped when Geralt asked him how else was he to get the money he would doubtless require for his own travels.

He managed to scrape together seven silver coins (which, as Ben explained to him, were the more precious "stags") and about fifty smaller copper coins (some of which Ben named "stars", whilst others he called "groats"). He found little of what the raiders wore useful, but he did go through their weapons, trying to find a sword to replace the surprisingly useful fake Dandelion had bought for him in a time that already seemed to Geralt to have taken place in an entirely different age altogether. The maces, axes and lances the raiders wore would be of little use to him, but he did grab both crossbows and place them into the cart - while he was not one to use ranged weapons, he was sure they would be of use to Edwyn's family.

Eventually, he settled for the sword he took off ser Ambrose's decapitated lieutenant - it wasn't anything extraordinary, but it was well balanced, tempered and fit into the modified scabbard Geralt wore on his back well enough. When he retrieved the dead rider's head, he found it was surprisingly young, with short curly brown hair and a small flat nose, blue eyes forever frozen in an expression of terror and despair. He let it fall to the ground beside the other corpses. He also retrieved what remained of the "viroledan blade" - the hilt, handle and pommel were all richly decorated, and might fetch a pretty penny with one merchant or another.

Their most precious cargo, apart from a small leather purse Edwyn had quickly hidden under his clothing and refused to let anyone see, were certainly the horses they had managed to gather. Ben and Geralt had brought back seven out of the ten remaining horses, and it was decided that they would try and bring the animals along as far as they could, to try and sell them in the town, since with the war about to commence in earnest, a swift steed would surely be in demand. Edwyn had to travel by cart, sitting next to Lucia due to his injury, but Geralt, Ben and even Melissa had reasoned to saddle one of the captured animals, and tying the rest behind the cart. Melissa took an elegant, brown mare with longs legs and a thick mane, whilst Benjicot stared longingly at the beautiful snow-white stallion that used to belong to ser Ambrose. It got so ridiculous Geralt simply had to intervene.

"If you think you can handle him, take him" the witcher remarked, carrying the only valuable part from the gear said horse had formerly worn - the fake unicorn horn that used to protrude from the stallion's iron mask, which, upon closer inspection, proved to be actually coated with genuine silver, and was thus valuable enough for Geralt to break it off and throw it into the cart.

Ben looked at the witcher as though he had just granted him royal title and earnings to boot. "Really?" he asked, disbelief evident in his face.

"Sure. But where I come from, horses like this require a lot of strength and no less skill to ride. How good of a rider are you?"

"Good enough. But… I thought you would want him. You earned him, not me."

"You earned him more than I did, actually. You knocked his former rider from him, quite literally, so I think it only fitting that you should ride him. Besides, I dislike stallions. I much prefer mares" said the witcher, pointing towards a slender, midnight-black steed with a long mane and beautiful fur.

"That one looks feisty. I wouldn't choose her if I were you" Melissa said, proving to Geralt that she was most likely the more skilled rider of the two siblings.

"I've some experience riding black-haired girls" remarked Geralt nonchalantly, taking his new mare by the snout and gently caressing her forehead. "Say, how do you like the name Roach?" he asked. The mare gave no indication of what she thought, but Geralt took that as a good enough sign of agreement.

Finally, all seemed to be in order, when Geralt was approached by Lucia and the twins. Edwyn, who was already seated in the cart and too exhausted to stand, at least sat up straight and watched his wife and daughters approach Geralt, holding something long and black in their hands.

"Words can never express how grateful we are to you" said Lucia as she walked towards the surprised witcher. "Nor can we ever hope to pay you back in full for what you did for us on this day. But I hope that this will at least serve you well in your future travels. It is one of the few precious things we've still left. Wear it with pride."

Geralt took the piece of black cloth in his hands and found it was a travelling cloak, like the one he'd left in his old Roche's satchels. But this one was far more beautiful and intricate than any cloak he'd ever worn. From the outside, it was made of rough, black wool, apparently able to well withstand moist and dirt. From the inside, it was made of red silk, soft and almost liquid to the touch. The cloak sported a deep hood as well, and it could be tied together with a single strap by the collar, which sported a small, silver buckle with a raven's likeness engraved on it.

"It used to be mine" said Edwyn from the cart, looking straight at Geralt. "Now it's yours. May it serve you well in the wars to come. I have to admit, when I first saw you, ser Geralt, I was convinced you were sent from Hell, to punish us for some unknown sin. Now though, while I'm still as clueless as I was before as to where you're truly from, I'm convinced the gods have sent you from the heavens to help deliver us, to save the innocent of this world from evil. Tell me, Geralt, is that so?"

Geralt was, despite himself, in awe. Not only due to how the family had treated him - he would be lying if he claimed that no man in the Northern Realms had ever shown kindness to him before. No, the realisation that now dawned on him was something else, something he had never expected to contemplate - for the first time in his life, he could truly be someone he actually wanted to be, become whomever he chose and desired to be. True, his visage might still hold him back, but no longer was he bound by social preconceptions, no longer would he be met with the same hostile expectations wherever he went. For the first time, he could be the hero of his own story. His mind raced back to that fateful encounter in the valleys beneath Kaer Morhen, to that single event that forever put him in his place and made him realise whom he'd always have to be. And even as he remembered it, he could almost feel the power that remembrance had always held over him fading away, losing its grip, and Geralt had the impression that only now he truly saw this brave new world around him for the first time.

"I guess… you could put it that way. Thank you" the witcher told the knight.

Epilogue

He'd very nearly beaten his horse bloody, so fast was he trying to escape the place where the massacre had taken place. At first, the only thing he felt was dread, no, not dread - fear, yes, that had been the word, primal and overwhelming instinct to flee, flee from the monster that had haunted his dreams for years. Or had they even been dreams? He wasn't sure. Few things made sense to him as he fled, galloping at break-neck speed through burned-out hovels and gloomy, dark forests, which seemed to close like grasping claws around his armour, as though trying to hold him down and wait for the monster to catch up with him.

And he'd been so close to killing the beast as well! Had it not been for that worthless little brat, he would have chopped up his childhood fears to pieces and burned them in the funeral pyre he would have constructed for Hagen. Poor Hagen. The only one in the whole world who_ understood_ him, the only one who _cared_. Now a headless corpse rolling around in peasant shit, his lovely head forever separated from his muscular body, left to the vermin to nibble at his bones and sup at his marrow, while the wolf dined on his flesh and drank his blood.

He knew the man-wolf would do so. He'd seen him partake in such savagery a thousand times before, each night the pale beast came to him, not to Hagen, to him, tearing at his toes and biting down at his legs, and then, only after it had sated itself with his blood and fear and pain, would it put him out of his misery, closing its jaws around his neck and tearing it wide open, waking up sweating and terrified, screaming at the top of their lungs.

He wouldn't allow him to do so now. No! He would hunt the beast down, run his lance through him and take its head as a trophy, and with that, his quest for glory would be complete. This was it! This was what he'd been preparing his whole life. A sudden thrill ran up his back, as he realised that soon, very soon, the thundering orchestra that was his life would come to a screaming crescendo. Despite the fear he still felt at the thought of the white wolf running after him, blood on his blades and death in his slit eyes, Ambrose let out a cackling, crazed laugh, a dreadful sound that filled the surrounding forest, a sound that terrified and aroused even the Silver Unicorn himself to the bone, for he understood now that in this war, he would at last find his demise or salvation, one way or another.

Ser Ambrose Hill was mad, and he was fully aware of it.

But to hunt down his new quarry, he would need skilled hunters. Not the dregs the Mountain had provided him with on his first ride, no, he would need better men to carry out his will. And in order to acquire such skilled hunting hounds, he needed to find ser Gregor. Allowing his horse to catch its breath for a short while, he drove it yet again to a furious sprint, until the poor beast was foaming at the mouth and its breaths turned to a pained wheezing.

He had notion how far or how long he'd been riding when the stallion collapsed. It simply could not continue at the pace Ambrose demanded of it, and tumbled to the ground, rasping and dying. Irritated more than annoyed by being thrown off his saddle a second time in a few hours, Ambrose pulled out his sword and drove it deep into the fallen animal's brains, silencing it's annoying moaning. He then continued on foot for the rest of the day, and the after that, feeling neither hunger nor thirst nor exhaustion. A fire was burning in him, a fire that silenced and burned away all the other discomforts he may have otherwise felt, as he made his way through forests of bones, fields of ash and villages of ghosts - ser Gregor's handiwork, Ambrose had no doubt, and his by extension as well. No one bothered him, no one even approached him, and after about a day of furious, unrelenting marching, ser Ambrose realised that quite possibly, he was the only living soul for miles around.

That though, for whatever reason, filled him with a queer sense of satisfaction. He had long since stopped trying to deduce why he'd felt the things he felt, and learned to flow along for the ride, realising that only once he'd made peace with himself and his desires and actions could he partake in any of the pleasures life so freely offered and denied to men highborn and common alike.

But even his fire began to wax and wane on the second morning of his escape from the watermill massacre. His feet were starting to go stiff and his eyes grew heavy and stung whenever the sun might pop out of the clouds and shine on the way before him. He began to feel hunger, and thirst, and exhaustion, but this, more than anything else, strengthened his resolve. And finally, on the noon of the second day, the Seven saw fit to reward their most humble servant.

As he began to exit yet another destroyed village, squatted on the hillside like the foulest of insects, a distinct sound that nothing but a large number of men could ever hope to make, and, burning yet again, this time with anticipation, Ambrose made his way over the crest of the hill, eagerly expecting what he knew he would find in the valley beyond. As ever, he hadn't been disappointed.

A host to end all hosts was making its way through the valley, its tail disappearing in the distance beyond. A bright, colourful snake it called to mind, a beast of a hundred thousand colours and forty thousand feet. And at its front, an iron rose of two thousand heavy horse extended its steel thorns - the western knights, the cream of the Golden Lands, led undoubtedly by the man who would for one final, glorious time, make the Seven Realms quiver in fear at the sound of his name. A wide, expecting smile flew across Ambrose's handsome features, the smile of a man for whom the future only held pleasant surprises, the smile of the bold and the mad.

Lord Tywin had arrived.


End file.
